


You think you have time

by Philosoferre



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2018-10-31 21:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 93,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosoferre/pseuds/Philosoferre
Summary: “Here, in my…” Enjolras pauses. No, something can’t be right. Something doesn’t add up. “In my chest.”The man just keeps staring at him, like he’s expecting something to happen. Nothing does.“How am I alive? I should have died, I can’t… I can’t be alive.” Enjolras takes a shaky breath and narrows his eyes. “Who are you?”-In which a protest goes terribly wrong, Grantaire isn't quite what he seems, and Enjolras is the key to a war he doesn't even know about.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, mes amis!!! It's been quite a while!  
> Important notes for fic:  
> ~ means a perspective change  
> \- means a scene change
> 
> I hope you enjoy!!

He sees them, sometimes, and he wishes he couldn’t. He sees the shadow pass over their face, that familiar flicker of uncertainty, because they know there’s _something_ there but they don’t know what. And isn’t it better that way? That he stays hidden, face veiled by his signature black robe, scythe at his side? He knows they want him to come, they want the sweet, sweet bliss he brings – but it just feels so wrong.

 

And when he does come for them – when they look him in the eye, sensing his oddly-comforting presence – he leans in close, and whispers: _“I am sorry.”_

 

He remembers sitting on the edge of a bathtub, watching a young girl – Eponine, he believes – hold up a brand-new razor with a shaking hand. She was barely sixteen. He remembers the way her gorgeous, dark eyes had welled up with tears, the way she had flinched, when she heard shouting from downstairs. She had taken a deep breath, closed her eyes, and-

 

And then she had opened them again, but her hand was frozen. She sensed something – _him_ – there. He stared at her, and she stared back. Except, she had no idea what she was looking at. And there was no reason for her to know.

 

He remembers leaning in close, placing a hand on her shoulder, and whispering: _“It is not your time.”_

~

 

Enjolras sits in a secluded booth at Café Musain, surrounded by approximately four binders, three hot pink folders, and dozens of papers. Oh, and his laptop. He reaches for his mug, and frowns when he finds it’s empty.

 

Combeferre, bless his soul, comes just then, with two steaming, completely-full mugs of coffee in his hands. He sets one down in front of Enjolras and sits down next to him, squinting his eyes at the bright computer screen.

 

He takes a long, thoughtful sip. “What are we preaching now?”

 

Enjolras briefly glances up. “Basic human rights.”

 

He turns back to his laptop, and opens the folder named ‘ART’. With Combeferre’s eyes tracking his every move, Enjolras sends the picture they had agreed on using for the posters to Courfeyrac. He finds comfort in the _click, click, click_ of the keyboard as he types.

 

“More specifically,” Combeferre says.

 

“Equal wages,” Enjolras replies. “Gender equality.”

 

There’s the distinct rustle of a bag opening, and when Enjolras looks up, Combeferre is holding a potato chip out for him. Enjolras takes it with a nod. Combeferre narrows his eyes and tilts his head curiously.

 

“You’re thinking within the binary,” Combeferre says. He pops a chip in his mouth.

 

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, I’m not. Equality for _all_ genders, Ferre. You know me.”

 

“Right.” Combeferre’s lips quirk up in a peculiar smile. “Just making sure.”

 

Enjolras playfully punches Combeferre in the shoulder before returning to his work. He still has a protest to organize, after all.

 

“This one’s going to be good,” he says.

 

Combeferre hesitates, and then reaches for one of the discarded Les Amis folders. This one’s labelled ‘Official Protest Planning’.

 

“They’re always good.”

 

“Whatever,” Enjolras inhales half of his coffee, and then takes a bite out of the muffin Combeferre brought him an hour ago. “This one will be a better good. The better….,” he pauses and frowns. “Better… betterest good.”

 

Combeferre laughs quietly. “When was the last time you slept, Enjolras?”

 

“Not too long ago.” Enjolras narrows his eyes suspiciously, mid-muffin bite. “Why?”

 

“ _Betterest_ isn’t a word.”

 

Enjolras slumps in the booth. “Oh.”

 

Combeferre half-heartedly pats his shoulder. It’s probably meant to be comforting. “Why don’t you go back to our place and get some sleep? I can take over. I know how to plan a protest.”

 

“No,” Enjolras frowns down at his muffin. He petulantly shakes his head. “I mean, I’m sure you can do it, it’s just…,” he rubs a hand over his face and sighs. “Maybe I will go back.”

 

“Here.” Combeferre throws a set of keys at Enjolras, and he instinctively catches them with his free hand. There’s a purple cat keychain dangling on the chain: Enjolras runs his hand over it, and smiles. He remembers when Courfeyrac got that: they were on a school field trip, in tenth grade, and they had gone to some world-famous anthropology museum in southern France. Combeferre had told Courfeyrac to choose something with his eyes closed, and he had picked the most horribly adorable, fuzzy, purple monstrosity of a keychain there ever was.

 

Combeferre’s had it with him ever since.

 

“Just,” Combeferre places a gentle hand on Enjolras’ forearm. “Go. Sleep a little. Don’t worry about this.”

 

Enjolras nods. He pauses, hesitant, before scooting past Combeferre and taking one last sip from his coffee. He isn’t entirely comfortable leaving his plans – his _protest_ – in someone else’s hands, even if that someone else is Combeferre. He’s never let anyone else take control, and it feels so foreign.

 

But this is Combeferre. Enjolras can trust him.

 

“Don’t screw it up,” Enjolras mutters, flicking his hand in an ungracious farewell.

 

Combeferre laughs quietly, pulling Enjolras’ laptop closer to himself. “You know I won’t.”

 

Enjolras opens the Café Musain door, hears the familiar chime, and turns around to look at Combeferre. He smiles to himself. Combeferre is already busy typing away, eyes focused solely on the computer screen in front of him. Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

 

-

 

_Enjolras is standing in an eerie, mist-filled, grey-tinted forest. He’s wearing a dusty, brown leather jacket that definitely isn’t his, and there’s a blood-stained dagger in his hand. When Enjolras turns his head, he sees a flickering lamppost by a tree. He doesn’t remember seeing it there before. At the far end of the clearing, there’s a hooded figure. Enjolras takes a step forward. So does the other person, whoever they are._

_Suddenly, they’re face-to-face. Enjolras notices the figure’s pale hand, at his side, holding a rusted metal scythe. Upon further inspection, he finds that the scythe’s blade is made of pure, shining obsidian. Enjolras sees himself in it. He averts his gaze, uncomfortable, and instead looks up at the man before him. He sees nothing, no face – just an eerie darkness._

_There’s a rustle in the trees. Enjolras instinctively turns towards it, eyes wide and alert. His hand is raised, dagger glinting. He can see nothing, which is rather disappointing. Slowly lowering his dagger, Enjolras looks back at the figure._

_He sees glowing, blue eyes, and then-_

Enjolras wakes up in a panic, eyes wide and breath ragged. His hands are fisted in his blanket, and his hair is slick with sweat. He glances around – he’s still in his room, in his apartment, and Combeferre is either finishing his documentary or asleep. Enjolras places a hand on his chest and closes his eyes: his heart is still beating rapidly, much too rapidly for his liking. With a shaky sigh, he turns to his alarm clock and groans.

 

It’s only two in the morning.

 

_This is going to be a long night._ Enjolras flicks on his bedside lamp, and opens the copy of _We Should All Be Feminists_ he left on his table. If he can’t sleep, he might as well read.

 

Enjolras is on page fifty-one, _so close to finishing the book_ , when he hears movement outside his door. His heart picks up its pace. _Could it be-?_

_No,_ Enjolras reassures himself. _It can’t possibly be the man from my dream. It was just a dream, after all. Maybe I’m just imagining things._

The floors creak as someone makes their way towards his room. Enjolras freezes. So he isn’t imagining everything. He can’t turn the lights off now, because whoever it is already knows he’s awake. So what can he do?

 

In a last-minute decision, Enjolras quietly reaches for the miniature flag he keeps by his bed, and holds it in the general vicinity of the door. Flagpoles are sharp, right? Well, it’ll have to do.

 

His door opens-

 

“Enjolras? What are you doing awake?”

 

Enjolras stares, eyes wide and unblinking, at Combeferre, who’s standing in his doorway, wearing flannel pajamas and looking like the dead. There’s a box of protein bars tucked under his arm, and half of one in his hand.

 

“Uh,” Enjolras says, closing his book. “I couldn’t sleep?”

 

Combeferre takes a bite out of his protein bar. “Why not?”

 

Enjolras shrugs. “I don’t know. I had a bad dream, I guess.”

 

“Oh.” Combeferre raises an eyebrow, and narrows his eyes. He probably doesn’t believe Enjolras, but that doesn’t really matter. “Okay.”

 

“What about you?” Enjolras asks.

 

Combeferre glances at the box he’s holding and sighs. “I, uh… I have to re-write my essay, you know, since Courf broke my laptop. And it’s due tomorrow, so…”

 

“Right.” Enjolras nods. He remembers when Courfeyrac thought it’d be a good idea to toss their desktop over the apartment balcony and see where it would land. Fun times. “Good luck with that.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Combeferre sends Enjolras one last concerned glance before shuffling towards his own room.

 

With a sigh, Enjolras flops back down on his bed and pulls his blanket up. His dream had felt so real, like he was there, in that misty forest. He can still feel the dagger in his hand, he can still see those electrifying blue eyes. It was probably his mind playing a trick, but still… Enjolras can’t recall anyone with eyes like that, and he finds it slightly odd that he would know what they look like. Oh, well.

 

Enjolras yawns, stretches, and stumbles out of bed. He’s going to go make himself a cup of coffee, because he feels caffeine-deprived, and there’s no chance he’s going to sleep anytime soon.

 

When he looks back out at the dark hallway, turning his eyes from the coffee machine’s light, he sees haunting blue.

 

~

 

The rain, he thinks, is a melancholy sort of beautiful. But then again, in his eyes, what isn’t? Rain falls and rises again, like the human soul – only, today, as he watches the drops splatter on dirty pavement and flooded grass, he’s mourning one of many lost souls, that won’t ever return. He doesn’t normally attend funerals – there are too many who die, and not enough time – but this one had been a truly wondrous soul. Something special. Something _rare._ And he’ll miss having it around, having that little spark of pure, unadulterated goodness in a planet full of darkness.

 

He does not mourn the fate of those who could not escape it; he mourns the fate of the world they stopped being good to.

 

~

 

Enjolras spends most of his free afternoon in the field outside the library. It’s warm out, and he likes reading where there’s fresh air, and grass, and sunlight. But even with the serenity, he can’t seem to focus on his book. The protest – the one Combeferre’s taken to planning – is in a few days, and Enjolras is already anxious. He isn’t sure how many people are going to show up, or what’s going to happen. He wishes he does, but Combeferre refuses to tell him.

 

He doesn’t even know their plans in case of emergencies, because Combeferre had to go and change those, too. He just can’t leave anything as it is.

 

With a sigh, Enjolras turns his thoughts back to the textbook open beside him. The page he’s on is entirely covered in post-its, and entire sections have been highlighted in neon yellow. He can’t even remember what all of it is for.

 

Just as he’s about to go get another cup of coffee, there’s the soft sound of footsteps, and then someone sits next to him on the grass. Enjolras turns around. It’s Cosette, looking as radiant as ever in her pink sundress. She looks out at the rest of the students on the field for a moment, and then faces Enjolras.

 

“Why aren’t you inside, with us?” She asks.

 

Enjolras shrugs. “I like it out here. Sunlight, and all that.”

 

“Right.” Cosette nods, but she probably doesn’t believe him. Enjolras has always been a terrible liar. She places a stray strand of golden hair behind her ear. “Is this about the protest?”

 

“Maybe,” Enjolras mutters defensively.

 

Cosette places a hand on his arm. “I can assure you it’s going fine, Enj. Ferre’s got it all under control.”

 

“Yeah,” Enjolras sighs. “See, that’s the problem. _I_ don’t know it’s going fine. All I have is what you guys tell me, and sorry, but that’s not really helpful.”

 

Cosette narrows her eyes and contemplates him. She crosses her arms indignantly. “Well, you have to deal with it. The protest’s on Saturday – that’s in less than two days, right? You’ll be fine.”

 

Enjolras pouts at the grass. He knows there isn’t any point in giving Cosette the benefit of the doubt, because she’ll see right through that. She always see past whatever wall any of them puts up, and Enjolras would find it endearing, if he isn’t too busy trying to stay mad at her.

 

“Oh, just relax a little, will you?” Cosette nudges his shoulder playfully. “Kill some misogynists, get a massage, hook up-“

 

Enjolras glares at her. “I don’t do one-night stands, Cosette.”

 

Cosette snorts ungraciously. “You don’t even do relationships, what’s your point?”

 

“My point is that I’m not going to do any of that anytime soon, so stop suggesting it.”

 

“Well, it might be good for you.”

 

“Bye, Cosette,” Enjolras says, returning his attention to his textbook. Studying seems like a very good idea right now.

 

Cosette sighs fondly, ruffles his hair, and leans over to press a soft kiss on his cheek. “The protest will go great, and everyone will proclaim you the new leader of France afterwards.”

 

“That’s a bad joke,” Enjolras mutters.

 

“Two days, okay?” Cosette reassures him. She stands up, brushes grass off of her dress, and pats his head. “Now quit worrying.”

 

Before Enjolras can say anything else, Cosette disappears back inside the library, and he’s left with the textbook and his own thoughts.

 

-

 

Enjolras wakes up on Friday night from another strange nightmare. This time, instead of glowing blue, the man’s eyes were a dark, eternal black. A pure sort of black, like darkness. He doesn’t remember much else, but it’s not like it should matter, anyways. It was just a dream.

 

The next morning, when Combeferre asks why he was awake at such a time, Enjolras lies and says he remembered he had coursework to do. Even though he looks incredibly suspicious, Combeferre doesn’t question him.

 

Enjolras makes himself coffee, and they don’t talk about it again.

 

-

 

The protest is going great. Enjolras is standing in the midst of a crowd, washed in golden sunlight, and preaching gender equality to the people-

 

Wait. Scratch that.

 

The protest is going terribly. Enjolras is standing in the midst of a panicked crowd, drenched in cold rain, and listening to his own frantic breathing. A few minutes ago – while he had been preaching gender equality – there had been a sudden gunshot.

 

No one knew what to do with themselves. No one _knows_ what to do with themselves.

 

Everyone’s just standing there, completely frozen, eyes wide and terrified to move. To be frank, Enjolras doesn’t want to take any risks, either. He doesn’t really know what to make of the situation, as it were. It was never supposed to go like this. Protests are supposed to be peaceful.

 

Combeferre had ensured it was going to be peaceful. He had _promised._

_But this isn’t his fault,_ Enjolras thinks. _Combeferre couldn’t have known about this. These things are unpredictable. They just happen. What could he have done? Nothing._

And now, they’re all soaked to the bone, afraid of what could possibly happen. But there was only one gunshot – maybe it’s over? Maybe someone just thought it’d be funny, to scare them all like that? Enjolras hopes it isn’t that, because that wasn’t funny at all, but at the same time… he’d feel a bit more relaxed if he knew what was even going on.

 

“Is it…” Courfeyrac pauses, and takes a shaky breath. He’s standing at Enjolras’ side, eyes wide and alert. He’s reaching for the emergency Metro ticket in his pocket (Combeferre got them all one, in case they had to flee). “Is it safe? Are we-“

 

“In danger?” Eponine interrupts, crossing her arms. She shakes her head, even though she still looks wary. “I don’t think so. Probably some stupid teenager who thought it’d be funny.”

 

Bahorel looks between Combeferre and Eponine, flexing his hands. “So, do I need to punch someone, or…? What are we going to do now?”

 

“You’re not going to punch anyone,” Combeferre says hotly. “Not yet, anyways. Just stay here, I’m sure we’re fine.”

 

“I’ll go look,” Enjolras says.

 

He turns to Combeferre, and receives a wary nod. If Combeferre thinks this is a good idea, then it probably is. Enjolras softly returns Cosette’s gentle smile before pushing his way through the crowd. From what he can tell, whatever was going on is now over. He’s just about to go back, and tell his friends that they have nothing to worry about, when he hears distinct yelling-

 

_“Give it back!”_

Enjolras whisks around to find the source of the yelling, and pauses. There’s two men and a woman standing near the protest crowd. Enjolras narrows his eyes at them. What are they yelling about?

 

And then he sees it.

 

One of the men, clearly drunk, is waving around a loaded gun. So _that’s_ where the shot came from. The woman, scared out of her wits, is helplessly clinging to the other man, the one who had been shouting.

 

“Give it back, Rob!” The man yells, reaching his hand out. He has an arm wrapped protectively around the woman.

 

The other man – Rob – continues waving the gun around and smiling idiotically. “Hmm, what you gonna do ‘bout it? _Steal_ it, like the… the stealer you are?”

 

“Just,” the first man sighs. “Just give it back. Please. Before you hurt anyone.”

 

Rob takes a step closer to them, shakily holding the gun. “I don’t… nah, I ain’t giving you the… the-“

 

“Please,” the woman sobs. “Please, Rob, put it down. You’re scaring us.”

 

Enjolras watches, frozen in his spot, as Rob jams the barrel of the gun against the woman’s throat. He’s laughing quietly to himself, clearly pleased with the situation. The woman looks like she’s stopped breathing – her eyes are incredibly wide, and her face is turning sickeningly pale.

 

Rob turns his attention to the other man, leaving the gun pressed on the woman. “What you gonna do, huh? I’m the one with the gun, so you… you got no leverage, no nothing.” He laughs again. “What you gonna do, if I… hmm, if your lady here ain’t gonna make it, huh?”

 

The man lunges forward, fisting his hands in the collar of Rob’s shirt. “Let her go.”

 

Rob shakes the man off. “Or what?”

 

There’s a pause. Enjolras is aware that everyone in the crowd is now watching this – except for Combeferre, who’s keeping his attention on Enjolras. He nods. Enjolras takes a deep breath and strides over to the two men, who have now taken to fistfighting over the gun.

 

“Hey, stop-“ Enjolras begins.

 

Rob looks up, wrenches the gun out of the other man’s hands, and says: “It’s none of your damn business-“

 

Just as he manages to get a grip on the gun, there’s a bang. Enjolras looks up at him, eyes wide. Rob looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Enjolras feels something warm pool in his shirt, feels something draining away… he reaches a hand to his chest, and finds it drenched in blood.

 

_His_ blood.

 

Time seems to slow down. The world starts to spin, and everything melds together. _What’s he looking at? Where’s Les Amis? Where is he?_

Enjolras looks towards his side. He thinks he sees the man with the blue eyes, but maybe he’s just… he’s hallucinating, that’s all it is. The man looks back at Enjolras. He looks… confused. Why does he look confused?

 

Enjolras closes his eyes, and then he drops.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left a kudos or comment on this fic, you're all amazing!! :)

It’s all happening so quickly, and Combeferre doesn’t even know where to begin. Enjolras went, to see what was going on – and now he’s bleeding out on the sidewalk, half-cradled in Bahorel’s arms. He’s pale, _too pale,_ and he’s losing too much blood.

 

How did it all get so bad, so very quickly?

 

Combeferre rushes over to Bahorel, and places two fingers on the side of Enjolras’ throat. He can feel a heartbeat- a very, very faint heartbeat, but that’s still something. He’s still alive. They still have a chance.

 

“Quick, someone call an ambulance!” He cries.

 

Courfeyrac fumbles for his phone, hazel eyes glistening with tears. “I’m… I’m on it.”

 

Bahorel looks from Enjolras to Combeferre. “What are we going to do? What’s going to happen to him?”

 

“I don’t know,” Combeferre says, shaking his head. Tears are threatening to spill, and he can’t… he can’t cry. He has to stay strong. Keep everyone in order. “I don’t know.”

 

-

 

Combeferre rides in the ambulance, and he holds Enjolras’ hand the whole way. The paramedic is talking – to him, or the driver, or someone at the hospital, he doesn’t know – but he’s not listening. All he’s thinking about is that he let Enjolras down. He promised that nothing would go wrong, that the protest would go great… and for what? It all went to hell.

 

_It’s all my fault. He’d never be here if it weren’t for me… I’m the reason he’s in this ambulance, with a bullet in his chest. I’m the reason he might die today._

 

Combeferre looks out the tiny window in the ambulance, and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. He’s not going to think about that. Enjolras isn’t going to die today, he’s just-

 

The paramedic gives him a concerned look. _That doesn’t mean anything._

Enjolras isn’t going to die today. Combeferre’s going to make sure of that.

 

-

 

_20: 35._

Combeferre sighs. It’s been over two hours, and the surgeons had said they’d come get him after… the surgery shouldn’t take this long, right? They said they’d just take the bullet out, and then… well, they couldn’t be sure if Enjolras would survive for much longer, and so they hadn’t developed a plan.

 

“Hey, I got you some coffee. How are you holding up?”

 

Combeferre looks up, and smiles sadly at Courfeyrac, who hands him a cup of steaming coffee. Combeferre nods in gratitude – he’s been at a loss for words ever since the accident. He takes a sip from his coffee and shrugs.

 

“Not so well,” he says. Courfeyrac sits down beside him. “I don’t have any updates.”

 

Courfeyrac considers this. “Well, maybe he’s still in surgery.”

 

“And what if he’s not?”

 

The silence seems to drag on. Combeferre doesn’t want to know what Courfeyrac’s thinking, because it can’t be anything good. _If he’s not in surgery, then he’s-_

_No. I won’t think about that. I_ can’t _think about that._

“Maybe they just got him out,” Courfeyrac suggests, ever the optimist. “Or, you know, the doctor had other things to do. Maybe he has to go get painkillers for Enj, or something. Or maybe he’s having a _Grey’s Anatomy_ moment with some nurse.”

 

Combeferre scrunches his nose up. He doesn’t really want to know what that means. “That’s great and all – for the doctor, I mean – but he should’ve updated me by now. He promised he’d come the minute the surgery was over.”

 

“Then it’s not over.” Courfeyrac sighs. He scuffs his worn-out Converse on the tile floor. “You should focus on something else, at least for a little while. I have your apiology book, if you want.”

 

Combeferre desperately wants his apiology book (he just got it last week at a used book store, and he’s been dying to read it), but he can’t get his mind off of Enjolras. He’d feel guilty, reading while his friend is getting probed by surgeons.

 

“Come on,” Courfeyrac says, smiling slyly as he pulls a book out of his messenger bag. “You know you want to.”

 

Combeferre grabs the book from his outstretched hands. “All right. But if the surgeon comes, let me know.”

 

-

 

The surgeon arrives, thirty minutes later. He’s wearing a grim expression, and Combeferre doesn’t really know what to make of that. He hopes it doesn’t even mean anything. Rather wordlessly, the surgeon beckons for them to follow him. There’s a clipboard tucked under his arm. It says _Julian Enjolras_ at the top, in neat handwriting.

 

Courfeyrac reaches his hand out. Combeferre takes it.

 

They walk for what feels like centuries. All Combeferre can hear is the ominous thud of the surgeon’s boots – everything else doesn’t matter. From what he can understand, they’re going to go see Enjolras, and that’s all he’s thinking about.

 

Courfeyrac looks like he wants to say something, but he never quite does. Instead, he keeps his gaze on the floor. He looks up when he thinks Combeferre isn’t watching him – but he always is – and every time, there’s that familiar glisten of tears in his eyes. Combeferre, who knows better, doesn’t say anything.

 

-

 

They finally reach the room they’ve stuck Enjolras in – Combeferre was beginning to worry they’d never get there. The doctor quietly opens the door and stands by as they step inside. It’s spacious, and there’s a small window near the bed.

 

Combeferre narrows his eyes. _Wait. Something doesn’t seem right._ Enjolras, looking like Death itself, is attached to so many fluid bags, and there’s a steadily-beeping monitor at his side, and an oxygen mask fitted around his face. _What happened in the surgery? What don’t I know?_

Combeferre steps out of the room and looks at the little plaque by the door. His eyes go alarmingly wide, and his breath hitches in his throat.

 

_Intensive Care Unit, 32._

“What’s wrong with him?” Combeferre blurts, facing the doctor. “Why is he in intensive care?”

 

“Sir,” the doctor says. “Relax. Mr. Enjolras’ surgery went very well, but-“

 

“ _But?_ There shouldn’t _be_ any _buts_!” Combeferre snaps.

 

The doctor sighs. “He’s still in life-threatening condition. He hasn’t woken up yet-“

 

“So he’s in a coma?”

 

“Not necessarily,” the doctor says slowly. “It could just be the morphine. I’m sure he’ll be all right-“

 

“Try again,” Combeferre hisses. “That’s not good enough.”

 

Courfeyrac clears his throat, from where he’s standing in the doorway. “Uh, so what can we do? I mean, what now?”

 

The doctor glances down at his clipboard. “He’s on life support at the moment. That’s all we can do, apart from closely monitoring his vitals.”

 

Combeferre crosses his arms and frowns at the floor. He’s annoyed that the doctors are just sticking him in ICU, but at the same time… well, at least he’s getting the medical attention he needs, right? If that’s all there is, then it’ll have to do.

 

~

 

When Enjolras wakes up, the first thing he notices is the IV stuck in his arm. The second thing he notices is the beeping monitor at his side. He looks around - from what he can tell, Courfeyrac and Combeferre are the only ones in the room. They’re standing by the open doorway, talking with someone. That someone looks suspiciously like a doctor.

 

But why is there a doctor here?

 

Enjolras sighs and leans back, his head hitting a soft, mint green pillow. Everything comes flooding back to him: the protest, the gun… well, that explains what he’s doing in a hospital. With another long sigh, Enjolras sits back up and immediately freezes. There’s a man sitting in a chair in front of his bed, smiling at him. He blinks at Enjolras with electric blue eyes.

 

_It’s the man from my dream. The man I saw at the protest, before… before the accident._

 

“Who are you?” Enjolras stammers.

 

The man tilts his head. “That doesn’t matter, does it?”

 

“It does to me.” With a cautious frown, Enjolras pulls his thin blanket up higher, and stares at the mysterious man. “What are you doing here? I don’t think I know you.”

 

“Everyone knows me,” the man replies.

 

“Well, you must… you have me mistaken with someone else. I don’t know who you are.”

 

The man briefly averts his gaze to the beautiful quartz and obsidian ring on his finger, and then looks back up again. There’s something strange about him, but Enjolras can’t point out what. “Everyone who knows me doesn’t want to, but they all must, in the end. Surely, you’re no different from the rest.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras asks, his voice wary.

 

He wonders what painkillers the hospital has this man on, to have him wandering into other patients’ rooms and talking nonsense.

 

“Enjolras,” the man begins. He leans forward in his chair. The air seems to grow cold. “What do you remember?”

 

Enjolras looks down at his hands. _How does he know my name? And what does he want?_ “I remember… a protest. And my friends, they were all… they were all there. And there was this… some drunk guy, I don’t know, and he…,” Enjolras pauses, breath shaky. He closes his eyes for a moment, hoping the man was just an illusion, but when he opens them, he’s faced with those orbs of brilliant blue. “He shot me.”

 

“Where?” The man asks.

 

_Who does he think he is? He has no right to barge in and ask me questions like this._

 

“Here, in my…” Enjolras pauses. No, something can’t be right. Something doesn’t add up. “In my chest.”

 

The man just keeps staring at him, like he’s expecting something to happen. Nothing does.

 

“How am I alive? I should have died, I can’t… I can’t be alive.” Enjolras takes a shaky breath and narrows his eyes. “Who are you?”

 

The man sighs. “I told you, it doesn’t matter.”

 

Enjolras ignores his last comment and looks over at Courfeyrac and Combeferre, who are still talking to the doctor. He wonders why they’re ignoring him, and the other man. But why did they even let him in? Do they know him?

 

“Your friends, Enjolras, are grieving,” the man says, following his gaze.

 

“Grieving for what?” Enjolras spits out, arms crossed.

 

The man doesn’t answer.

 

“Grieving for _what?_ Answer me! What are they grieving for?”

 

“You,” the man says.

 

Enjolras blinks at him, stunned. What? How can his friends be grieving for him, when he’s here, and alive?

 

He narrows his eyes. “Tell me who you are, and what the _hell_ is going on here.”

 

The man fiddles with his obsidian ring and sighs. He shifts a little in his seat, so that he’s more comfortably facing Enjolras. “Some call me the Grim Reaper, others know me as the Angel of Death. But I prefer Grantaire. It has a nice ring to it.”

 

Enjolras’ eyes go wider. The man blinks at him with those impossibly blue eyes. This isn’t making much sense – whatever _this_ is – but at the same time… it kind of does. Enjolras remembers those eyes from his dream, the man at the protest… could it be?

 

“You’re Death?” Enjolras asks.

 

He spreads his arms out and smiles. “The one and only.”

 

“So if you’re… then am I...,” Enjolras pauses, looking around. “Am I dead?”

 

“No.” The man – Grantaire, Death, whatever his name is – rolls his eyes. “You’re in the Spirit Realm. The plane of existence between life and death – your friends would call you a ghost. But they can’t see you.”

 

“I’m a ghost? So then I’m dead! You can’t be a ghost unless you’ve died!”

 

“You’re not dead,” Grantaire snaps. “And you’re not exactly alive, either.”

 

Enjolras frowns and tilts his head. “Then what am I?”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“Kind of,” Enjolras says. He averts his gaze to the bracelet around his wrist. Grantaire has an intense stare – but it would have been unfair to expect any less of him, being Death and all that. “What do you want with me, anyways? Are you…?”

 

Grantaire slowly shakes his head. His hair (black, like pure, eternal darkness) softly brushes his shoulder. “I’m not here to deliver you to your afterlife, Enjolras. Nor am I here to bring about your demise. It’s quite the contrary, actually.”

 

“You…” Enjolras narrows his eyes. “You want to save me?”

 

Grantaire shrugs. “I guess you could call it that.”

 

“But why? If you’re Death, then-“

 

“I’m already failing at my job, aren’t I?” Grantaire interrupts. He flashes Enjolras a brilliant, idiotic smile. “And what a spectacular fail it is. Saving a human from death! Who would have thought it would end like this?”

 

“So why do you want to save me?” Enjolras asks, an eyebrow raised.

 

“There are two reasons. One.” Grantaire taps a finger, and glances up. Enjolras nods. _Continue._ “There’s a natural order. You died prematurely, and so you messed it up. I can’t have you dead before your time. Two.” He pauses, and taps a second finger. “You are very important. More important than you can ever imagine. And believe me, you’ll be much better off if you accept my offer before another one comes along.”

 

_Another offer? Why would another offer come along? Who would do that?_

 

Enjolras frowns. “What other offer?”

 

A shadow passes over Grantaire’s face. He leans back in his chair. He tilts his head, and looks at Enjolras curiously. “That’s not important.”

 

“You say nothing’s important, but I think it all is. Why else would you be hiding things from me? I think I deserve to know why you want to save me, thank you very much.” Enjolras slumps back against the hospital bed. He looks over and sighs: Combeferre and Courfeyrac are now outside his room, talking in hushed voices. Courfeyrac looks like he’s going to cry. Enjolras turns back to Grantaire. “Sorry, but I’m not agreeing to anything until I know everything.”

 

“So, you’d rather be stuck here, in the Spirit Realm, unable to communicate with your friends? You’d rather have them believe you’re dead? Lose hope? All because I’m not telling you everything?”

 

Enjolras grits his teeth. “I deserve to know. Besides, I was supposed to die, wasn’t I? So maybe I should just _die._ You know, fate.”

 

Grantaire narrows his eyes. “Atropos doesn’t want this, either.”

 

Enjolras indignantly crosses his arms. He doesn’t like the idea of dying, but it happens to everyone eventually, and if he was supposed to die at the protest, he’s all right with that. It’s his burden to bear. Death – whoever he is – has no right to care. He shouldn’t even care, and why he does is concerning. What did Enjolras ever do to deserve Death’s attention?

 

“It’s your call,” Grantaire says, after a long pause of silence. “I’m not going to force you into anything.”

 

“I’m not coming with you.” Enjolras’ voice breaks. He can’t bring himself to look up – he’s scared he’ll see disappointment, or anger.

 

When he does finally look up, Grantaire is gone.

 

~

 

Atropos, for some odd reason, decided she wanted to live in an upscale apartment in New York. Typical, really. It’s not that Grantaire hates New York – he loves musical theatre, honestly – he just hates pretending to be American. It’s always the worst, and that’s why he rarely meets with Atropos face-to-face.

 

Pretending to be French… that, he doesn’t mind nearly as much. At least they have good bread. But Americans? Grantaire already wants this meeting to be over, and he’s only just reached her front door.

 

Before he can even knock, Atropos is on the other side of the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. She’s giving him a pointedly blank expression. Those Fates.

 

“Hello, Atropos, how have you been? I’ve been great, thanks for asking. May I come in?” Grantaire says.

 

Atropos isn’t amused. “How was your mission? Did you save Enjolras?”

 

“Always right to the point,” Grantaire sighs. He steps in past her, and closes the door. “Why did I expect anything else?”

 

“Well?” Atropos asks. “How did it go?”

 

“Awful. Firstly, Enjolras is a rude, distrusting, ungrateful prick, and secondly, he didn’t say yes. It’s like he wants to be stuck in the Spirit Realm, or something.”

 

Atropos sighs. She snaps her fingers, and a full glass of wine suddenly appears in her hand. Grantaire wishes he had one: he suspects it’s going to be a rather long night. “You know we need him. You can’t let him get away.”

 

“And I’m not going to,” Grantaire says. “Listen, I’m working on a plan. I’ll get him to say yes.”

 

“Don’t waste any more of my time.” Atropos glares at him over the edge of her wine glass. “You know we need that information, and fast. They already know about _it_ , and we can’t… if they get to him first-“

 

“They won’t. We have Enjolras, for now. They won’t get it out of him before we do.”

 

Atropos frowns. “How do you know?”

 

“Because.” Grantaire smiles. “I have my ways.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just got new succulents!! Anyways. I hope you enjoy, mes amis! :)

“Will you say yes now?” Grantaire asks, perched on the edge of Enjolras’ hospital bed.

 

They’ve been doing this for the past seven days: Grantaire asks about the offer, Enjolras declines, and they do it again the next day. Enjolras still can’t understand what Grantaire wants from him. What interest would Death have in him? It makes no sense.

 

“No,” Enjolras says indifferently.

 

Grantaire tilts his head, in that curious way of his. “And why not?”

 

“Because.” Enjolras pauses. He has to word everything he says with utter care, otherwise Grantaire takes it the wrong way. “Because I’m not really dead, and my friends know that.”

 

“Well, about that…,” Grantaire briefly looks out the window, and sighs. “You’re not exactly _not_ dead.”

 

“But you told me I’m…”

 

Enjolras fists his hands in his pale green blanket. Did Grantaire lie to him? Why would he do that, if he wants to save him? He doesn’t even know what he’s feeling – anger, hurt, disappointment… regret, maybe. Regret because he should’ve taken the offer.

 

_Don’t give in, not yet. He might be lying to you again. Playing tricks. Wait a little longer._

“Things change.” Grantaire’s voice has suddenly become ice-cold. He’s not interested in playing friends, then. Enjolras can do that. “Your body is deteriorating – well, your corporeal body. And every time you say no to my offer, you take another step towards the edge. It’s as simple as that.”

 

“But… you can still bring me back if I’m dead, right?” Enjolras asks. But it doesn’t really matter, anyways. He’s still going to continue saying no. “Right?”

 

“Of course I can, you idiot! I’m Death, if you haven’t noticed.” Grantaire sighs again. “I’ve never favoured necromancy, but I will do it if I need to. It would just raise more suspicion than I care to have – but if you want to explain to your friends that you were raised from the dead, then go ahead. I’m not going to stop you.”

 

Enjolras averts his gaze to his blanket. He wishes everything was simple. He wishes Grantaire would just tell him why he needs to be saved. He wishes he could reach out to his friends. He wishes none of this had ever happened.

 

“Just go already,” he says, gritting his teeth. 

 

Grantaire is gone by the time he looks up again. It’s better that way.

 

~

 

_eight days earlier, at the protest_

Grantaire stands near a crowd of lively students, watching the rain fall. _Drip, drip, drip._ He had gotten the memo that someone is going to die at this protest (it’s his fifth this week; people should really stop being so careless), and so he’s here. He wishes Atropos had told him who exactly was going to die – it always made his job a little earlier. Well, he’ll find out eventually.

 

Grantaire is so lost in his own thoughts that, initially, he doesn’t even hear the gunshot. The next time he looks out at the crowd, they’re all emitting red-hot waves of panic, and the occasional icy blast of pure fear.

 

_What’s going on?_

Through his peripheral vision, Grantaire sees a drunk man, waving around a gun. Had something happened, while he wasn’t paying attention? He’s about to turn away, declare it nothing of importance, when a brazen young man with golden hair (pure and bright, like the sun) steps out from the crowd, and boldly heads toward the drunk man, who is now holding his gun against a woman’s throat.

 

Grantaire wonders if the woman is going to die, but that would be too easy. He likes the curiousity that comes with his job, and Atropos knows how annoyed he gets if the guessing game is a little too easy. Somehow, it doesn’t seem right that this woman is going to die. She’s radiating that warm, comforting aura that belongs to someone who’s going to live a long life.

 

Grantaire tilts his head and narrows his eyes. _So who is going to die?_

 

He watches intensely as the blonde man carelessly interrupts a fistfight between the drunk guy, and the well-dressed man accompanying the woman. _What’s he thinking? That’s got to be the stupidest thing anyone has done this week._

When Grantaire focuses back on the situation, the stupid blonde man is kneeling on the ground, one hand raised up to his chest. The ground is stained red. Grantaire’s eyes go wide. _So this is the guy who… wait. No. That can’t be right._

 

He disappears, and reappears a few feet behind the drunk guy, who’s staring open-mouthed at the scene before him. The young, blonde man is slowly turning an ashen gray, and slick blood is pooling out from between his fingertips. He doesn’t have much longer to live – Grantaire can feel his life force ebbing away, disintegrating, fading into an endless stream of lost souls.

 

Except, that can’t happen. It’s not supposed to happen – not today, anyways. Not for a very, very long time. Grantaire knows this man, knows what he’s destined for. Enjolras, if he isn’t mistaken.

 

Enjolras is supposed to die on a battlefield, impaled with the sword of one of Grantaire’s own kind; he’s supposed to die heroically. This isn’t how he’s supposed to go, shot by some man who’s too drunk to actually process any of this.

 

_I can’t lose him. He… he’s useful. Valuable. He knows things I need to know, if I want to win._

 

Grantaire looks at Enjolras, his mouth turned down in a sad frown. Enjolras lifts his brilliant blue eyes, and sees him, too.

 

~

 

When Grantaire comes back two days later, Enjolras doesn’t bother talking to him. He’s had a lot of time to think about the situation at hand, and he’s come to the conclusion that Grantaire’s probably hiding everything from him because he’s not actually important. He doesn’t really know _why_ Grantaire would do this – maybe he thought it’d be funny, to mess with some poor, innocent human.

 

It sounds like a very immortal-being thing to do. Enjolras is going to stick to it, until Grantaire gives him actual evidence.

 

“Oh, come on, that’s petty, even for you,” Grantaire says, from where he’s lounging on the chair in front of Enjolras’ bed. There’s an American magazine in his hand, which he seems to be enjoying.

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes, and gives him one brief glance. He barely suppresses a smile when he notices Grantaire’s neon pink socks. When he sees Grantaire looking up at him, he awkwardly clears his throat and goes back to studying his fingerprints. Whorls. Fascinating.

 

“Oh, you like them?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow, quirks his lips up in an odd smile, and wiggles his feet. “Courtesy of your lovely friend, Courfeyrac. He was wearing them the other day. Quite the fashionable man, if I dare say so myself.”

 

Instead of answering, Enjolras picks at the loose thread on his blanket. He’s not going to give in and talk to Death about his neon socks, above all things. There are much more important things they could talk about. Like what he even wants with Enjolras in the first place, for starters.

 

Grantaire sighs and sets his magazine down. “If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. Not a lot of people do, believe it or not. But I just want you to understand that you can’t escape me forever, Enjolras. I’m inevitable.”

 

_You’re stupid, that’s what. I’m not agreeing to your “offer” any time soon. Why should I? You’ve given me no reason to._

 

“I just want to know why you chose me,” Enjolras whispers, more to himself than to Grantaire.

 

Grantaire’s eyes blink at him with a scary seriousness. He leans forward in his chair, and clasps his hands. “I don’t think you’re ready for everything at the moment, but I will still tell you what you desire to know. There are some… things, things that you know. You were chosen a long time ago, to be the bearer of this information. These… these things, Atropos and I believe they can help us. And we need you for that.”

 

“Help you with what?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire hasn’t exactly answered his question, and he’s still dying to know _what_ information he’s bearing, but he’ll leave that for another time. Grantaire doesn’t seem to be in a Q & A mood.

 

Grantaire hesitates before speaking, “A war. It’s only just beginning, but it’s dangerous nonetheless.”

 

_That tells me a lot. Really opens up my eyes to the situation._

“Are you trying to be vague?” Enjolras retorts. He’s practically biting his tongue so that he doesn’t end up saying anything particularly bitter. Grantaire seems to have a thing about that.

 

“Vague?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow, and snorts ungraciously. “Quite an overstatement, Enjolras. I wasn’t being _vague._ ”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Yes, you were. What the hell am I supposed to get out of “there’s a war going on”? Huh?”

 

“That there’s a war going on,” Grantaire says. He sounds irritated. Enjolras doesn’t really care. “If this is what you call vague, then I have reason to be concerned for the state and future of humanity.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t respond for a long time. He can’t think of anything to say that can be even mildly considered ‘polite’ or ‘nice’. He may be past annoyed, but that doesn’t mean he can disrespect Death.

 

“It’ll come to you eventually,” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras furrows his brow and frowns. Another vague piece of information. “What will-“

 

He doesn’t get a response; Grantaire is already gone. Enjolras sighs, and tries not to think about him until he falls asleep again.

 

~

 

Combeferre rubs at his sore eyes with his free hand before lazily checking his wristwatch. It’s four in the morning. _But what day is it?_

 

Oh, right. The protest. It’s been nine days since… well, since Combeferre arrived at the hospital. He hasn’t exactly left since then, and he’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen any real sunlight, either. Or eaten anything except frozen orange juice, boxes of dry Cheerios, and (admittedly good) coffee. He’s not even worried about his (rather often) lack of appetite (he normally dismisses it, anyways) – he’s worried about his aloe, Dave. The name was Courfeyrac’s idea, but he hasn’t ever changed it.

 

_I should call someone, ask if they can water Dave for me. I think I’m going to be here for a while._

Combeferre fumbles in his coat pocket for his phone, which never stops buzzing with worried texts and voicemails from the rest of Les Amis (they all volunteered to camp out at the hospital with him, but Combeferre said he’d be fine. He is. He will be.).

 

The latest one is from Eponine. It simply reads: _hey asshat, cosette and i r coming over 2day w coffee 4 us + circle-shaped pastries_

Combeferre laughs quietly to himself before typing out an answer: **_Got it. Can you ask Courf to water Dave for me? Thanks._**

****

His phone buzzes with an instantaneous answer. _ooh, who’s dave?? ;)_

**_My plant._ **

****

_damn. fine i’ll tell ur bf_

_on our way buddy_

_see u soon x_

Combeferre shakes his head as he tucks his phone away. He’s aware he’s grinning like an idiot, but he doesn’t really care. He’s too sleep-deprived to think about such things – besides, there’s a café calling his name, and they make really good coffee. He fires a text to Eponine before he leaves, letting her know he might not be in the room.

 

He throws his jacket on, makes sure he has his wallet, and then casts a sad, regretful glance at Enjolras.

 

-

 

When Combeferre comes back with a half-finished cup of coffee, he finds Eponine and Cosette squished on the chair opposite Enjolras. They’re both holding coffee, and there’s a pink box of donuts on the table beside them. It looks untouched, as far as Combeferre can tell. But knowing Eponine, it probably isn’t.

 

“There you are!” Cosette exclaims, smiling widely. “We were getting worried about you.”

 

Eponine snorts. “You mean _you_ were getting worried. I wasn’t.”

 

“Thanks,” Combeferre says. He pulls his chair up to the table, and opens the donut box. Only two have been eaten. He grabs a chocolate one, and takes a bite. “How are you guys doing?”

 

Cosette and Eponine exchange a look. Combeferre has no idea what to make of it, but he figures it doesn’t matter. Everyone who comes to visit Enjolras acts weird when he’s around, and he’s decided it’s probably because he looks like the dead.

 

“Oh, we’re fine.” Cosette pauses, and then slumps back against Eponine, her legs tucked by her side. She rubs a hand over her face. “Well, Marius isn’t. Not really. I mean, it’s not like he’s crying all the time-“

 

“Unlike your boyfriend,” Eponine interrupts.

 

“-but he’s still, I don’t know, he’s weird, lately. Just kind of out of it, you know? I don’t think he’s ever seen anyone get shot,” Cosette continues, sending Eponine a dirty glare.

 

Eponine only winks, and throws her head back to laugh open-mouthed. Combeferre suddenly feels like he’s walked into something he wasn’t supposed to, but he gets that feeling a lot near his friends, so it doesn’t bother him too much. Instead, he raises an eyebrow at Cosette. That girl, with her endless collection of pink sundresses and flats with lace bows, doesn’t really seem like the type of person to have seen others get shot.

 

Then again, it’s Cosette. She owns forty purses, a spotlessly clean pink Vespa, and an eerie collection of Victorian-era Voodoo dolls that she keeps on her bookshelf.

 

_I like the aesthetic,_ she had said, when Combeferre first saw them. _Now people know not to get on my bad side._

_They already know that,_ Combeferre had replied, warily eyeing the dolls.

 

He clears his throat, and snaps back to the present. Eponine and Cosette are both looking at him expectantly, like they want him to say something.

 

“You’ve seen people get shot?” He asks Cosette.

 

Cosette shrugs nonchalantly, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “I’ve seen movies, Ferre.”

 

Movies. Right. Because people get shot in those all the time.

 

“Okay,” Combeferre says. He thinks it’d be wiser not to press the matter.

 

“So,” Eponine says. She gestures at Enjolras with the hand that isn’t tucked around Cosette. “How’s pretty boy been doing?”

 

Combeferre sighs and shakes his head. He takes another bite out of his donut. “From what I’ve understood, not very well.”

 

“What do you mean?” Cosette asks, her lips turned down in a suspicious frown.

 

“The doctor says his vitals are getting worse every day,” Combeferre explains. He pauses, and briefly looks in the opposite direction so he can blink away the tears forming in his eyes. He can’t cry right now. He’s too tired, and Eponine isn’t exactly perfect company. “It’s like… it’s like he’s on the brink of death.”

 

“Don’t say that!” Cosette blurts. She takes a shaky breath, regains her graceful composure, and then reaches out to grasp Combeferre’s hand with her own. He distantly notices her nails are the same red as Enjolras’ blood, and quickly pushes that thought away. “Don’t say that, Ferre. He’s not dead. He’s not dying, either. All right? Enjolras is going to live, we just… we have to hope. Have faith.”

 

Eponine looks like she’s holding back a sarcastic comment, but instead she says, “What, you want us to pray every night?”

 

“That’s not at all what I’m saying,” Cosette replies. “I know you’re not religious – neither of you – but _I_ am. My father raised me to pray, and so I will. If you guys just want to scream at the universe, go ahead. All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t give up on him.”

 

_How am I supposed to have faith?_ Combeferre wonders. _How am I supposed to not give up on Enjolras?_

“It’s hard,” Eponine says, casting Combeferre a sidelong glance. She looks concerned, but he dismisses it. “I get it. I… I’ve been in rough places myself, and it’s not always rainbows and unicorns when it comes to cleaning up the mess. Not every puzzle piece fits the first time. Sometimes, you lose one. Sometimes, what you get looks nothing like what the picture says it should look like. But you still have a puzzle, right? And it may not be complete, but it’s still… _there._ ” Eponine pauses. She smiles sadly. “Do me a favour, Ferre, and don’t give up hope. Hope is all we have left.”

 

Combeferre wants to say something about how hope isn’t all they have left, how they’re surrounded by doctors who can do _something, anything,_ but the words die on his lips. Instead, he looks down and studies the lines on his hands. He knows Cosette and Eponine are right – there isn’t really much they can do – but he desperately wishes they aren’t at that point, where they have to pray to distant deities and overlook the grim seriousness of the situation to get by. He doesn’t even know how he’s going to live like this. Courfeyrac is a total mess, and he doesn’t know how to comfort him.

 

Combeferre looks over at the monitor at Enjolras’ side and sighs. He knows. God, he knows. At this rate, there’s a horribly slim chance that Enjolras will survive. Honestly, Combeferre’s surprised he even made it this far.

 

_Don’t think like that,_ a voice says. It sounds suspiciously like Enjolras himself. _God, Ferre, don’t think about that. I’m still here, right? I’m breathing. I have a pulse. I’ll make it through this, trust me. I’m nothing if not a fighter._

Combeferre chuckles softly to himself. Eponine and Cosette give him strange looks, but they don’t say anything. He wishes they would.

 

“We have to go soon,” Cosette says, her voice gentle and broken. She absentmindedly wipes at her eyes. Her mascara smears. “Um, we told Marius we’d… we have a date planned.”

 

Combeferre nods. “That’s nice.” He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. Dates seem like such a trivial thing, with all that’s going on.

 

“Are you going to be all right?” She asks, frowning.

 

Combeferre shrugs. “I guess, yeah. I’ll manage.”

 

Eponine drinks her coffee, and looks at Combeferre over the rim of her cup with narrowed eyes. “We’ll tell Feuilly and Jehan to come over, okay? Feuilly’s shift is almost over-“

 

“It’s fine, really,” Combeferre reassures them. He says it a little too quickly, and he voice sounds strained, but neither of them makes a comment. “I’ll call someone if I need… I don’t know. I’ll be okay, for now.”

 

“You’re sure?” Cosette asks. She looks more serious than Combeferre has seen her in a while.

 

“Positive,” he says.

 

Cosette and Eponine stay for a while longer, eating their donuts and drinking their coffee, and whispering in hushed tones between themselves. Combeferre tunes whatever they say out – he doesn’t want to know if they’re exchanging concerns about him, or betting how long they’ll keep Enjolras on life support, or whatever it is they’re talking about. Instead, he reads the ingredients on the back of the donut box.

 

When they leave, Combeferre purposely doesn’t look at the emergency number Cosette wrote on a thin, cafeteria napkin. He tucks it in his coat pocket, and doesn’t think about it – or them – for the rest of the day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally hc Cosette as religious. You know, because Valjean was. If anyone wants to know my religion hcs (I have spent a long time thinking about this, okay), hit me up!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long, I've been really busy lately!! I hope you enjoy this chapter! <3
> 
> Warnings for homophobic attitudes (is that a thing? I don't know what to call it), but it's not too major.

Combeferre wakes up to a loud crash. He jumps up in his uncomfortable plastic chair, takes his glasses off, and rubs at his eyes. From what he can see, there’s someone else in the room (or possibly outside – he can’t really tell the difference), but he doesn’t know who they are, or what they’re doing here.

 

“So, um, I was just thinking, but… do you maybe, I don’t know, want to go out? Sometime? Today, or like… in the future?”

 

Combeferre puts his glasses back on and squints at the figure. Courfeyrac? What’s he doing here?

 

“Sorry?” Combeferre asks. He’s too tired for anything to make sense right now. Some subtitles and a narrator would be appreciated.

 

Courfeyrac shifts his weight and rests one Italian loafer-clad foot against the wooden door. He’s nervously tugging at the ends of his blue scarf with one hand. “Uh, well… I was thinking, and I… it’d be good for you to get out, at least for a while. We can go somewhere, or even… I mean, we’ll go somewhere that’s not in the hospital, obviously, but… you can chose where.”

 

Combeferre tilts his head. “You want to go on a date? Now?”

 

“No!” Courfeyrac says, a little too quickly. His eyes go wide. “I mean, yes. Sort of. Let’s not call it a date, per se. More like... friends hanging out, you know? Just to take your mind off of Enjolras for a bit.”

 

_We can’t exactly use the term “friends” when we’re a little more than that,_ Combeferre muses. He supposes it’s not too terrible of an idea, especially if he’ll get the chance to use his legs again. He’s been spending way too much sitting lately, and he’s already in pain every time he gets up.

 

“Okay,” Combeferre replies. He shrugs. “Why not, right? A break could do me some good.”

 

Courfeyrac looks like he doesn’t really believe that. “You sure Eponine hasn’t tricked you into saying this, or-“

 

“Basic psychology, Courf. Is someone available to switch me out?”

 

Courfeyrac glances at his phone and nods. “Uh, Jehan’s on their way. They said they have something for you.”

 

“Okay. Let’s just wait for them to get here, and then we’ll be on our way.”

 

Courfeyrac beams, and his smile shines like a thousand suns.

 

-

 

Jehan, as it turns out, took a detour to a small, used bookshop on their way to the hospital, and so they come in with three equally ugly flower-printed reusable bags, all filled with books. Courfeyrac makes no comment, even though it looks like he wants to say something.

 

“That’s a lot of books,” Combeferre says.

 

Jehan dumps their bags on the table and nods. “Oh, I have two more bags in the car. I just wanted some light reading while I’m here.”

 

“Light reading?” Courfeyrac asks. “How long do you think we’ll be gone?”

 

Jehan shrugs and plops down in an empty chair. They’re wearing bright orange overalls and a lavender cat-patterned sweater. Combeferre smiles.

 

“Well, how am I supposed to know?” Jehan reaches into one of the bags and pulls out a large, leather-bound volume. “Here, Ferre, this is for you. I heard the store just picked up a few copies of this bad-boy, and I thought, ‘well, hey, I should get one for my dear friend’. So, here it is.”

 

Combeferre gratefully accepts the heavy book, and tilts it up to the light to read the title. It’s written in a barely readable gold font, and barely takes up space on the cover.

 

_The Divine Comedy._

Combeferre smiles. “Jehan, you shouldn’t have! You know I’ve wanted this for so long.”

 

“Uh, yeah, that’s why I got it for you,” Jehan says. They’re smiling, too, and there’s an amused gleam in their eyes. “It’s nothing, really. Plus, I know how much you love to fantasize about-“

 

“All right, that’s enough, we’re going, bye.” Combeferre hurriedly places the book down, grabs Courfeyrac by the arm, and starts steering him towards the door. He turns around, and ignores Jehan’s laughter. “It was _one dream_ , Jehan. _One dream._ ”

 

Courfeyrac pauses and frowns. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Ferre fantasizes about being a tour guide in Purgatory!” Jehan calls out, just as Combeferre successfully pushes Courfeyrac out of the room and slams the door.

 

“You what now?” Courfeyrac asks, eyebrows raised.

 

“I was fourteen,” Combeferre retorts. Well, that was a horrible defense.

 

Courfeyrac pats Combeferre on the shoulder and lovingly shakes his head. “Oh, you’re such a dork. But you know what?” He leans up on his toes to press a soft kiss to Combeferre’s cheek. “You’re my dork.”

 

Combeferre doesn’t think about Enjolras, or the hospital, the entire time they’re out.

 

~

 

“I have a question for you,” Grantaire says suddenly. He pauses his pacing and turns to face Enjolras, eyes gleaming a vibrant, electric shade of blue. His lips are turned up in that odd smile of his.

 

Enjolras absentmindedly flips through the National Geographic magazine Grantaire got him. “As long as this isn’t Jeopardy, go ahead.”

 

Grantaire tilts his head curiously. “What?”

 

“Never mind,” Enjolras sighs. He glances up. “Well?”

 

“What do you think of hiking?”

 

Enjolras blinks at him. “The only hiking I do is up the ladder of social status,” he deadpans.

 

“You’re not serious, are you?” Grantaire asks.

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “And you don’t go around killing people for a job.”

 

“It’s not a job, it’s a fundamental part of existence. Life cannot be without death. Also, I don’t get paid.” Grantaire pauses. “It’s more of an eternal internship. What does me killing people have anything to do with hiking?”

 

“Why is hiking relevant to anything in the first place?” Enjolras retorts.

 

Grantaire seems to consider this. He glances at the little window in Enjolras’ room and shrugs. “I thought we could go on a walk. Have a chat. Feed the ducks.”

 

“Are you trying to be a normal human?” Enjolras narrows his eyes suspiciously. He wonders what Grantaire’s up to now.

 

“Can’t you tell?” Grantaire eagerly gestures at his jacket, and then at his dark green Converse. “I’m wearing what humans wear… unless I’m mistaken, and you don’t normally go around in faux leather jackets and sneakers.”

 

“No, we do,” Enjolras says. He’s still confused about what game Grantaire thinks he’s playing. What the hell does any of this have to do with their current predicament? “I didn’t think you were one for faux leather, though.”

 

“I’m not into animal cruelty,” Grantaire says. He points at the window. “Well? How would you like to go on a walk with Death?”

 

Enjolras sighs. “I always thought I’d hear that in the metaphorical sense.”

 

“Is that a yes?” There’s a spark of hope in Grantaire’s voice. Enjolras tries not to let it get to him.

 

“Depends why you want to take me on a walk.” Enjolras shuffles off the bed and stretches. He hasn’t really done anything physical in the last week – well, he is sort-of-almost dead, so that wouldn’t make much sense. “Are you planning on treating me to a romantic picnic, or something?”

 

Grantaire scrunches his nose up. “Oh, no. I don’t enjoy picnics. There’s too many living things crawling everywhere for my liking.”

 

“Right, because you hate living things.”

 

“No, I don’t. That’s a false accusation.” Grantaire studies Enjolras for a moment. He wraps his hand around Enjolras’ wrist and yanks him out of the room without warning. “Well, what hallway do you want to take?”

 

“Wait, hold up.” Enjolras abruptly halts, holding his other hand up. “I can’t go anywhere looking like this.”

 

“You’re not,” Grantaire says, and continues dragging him. They turn to the left, following a big blue sign that reads CAFETERIA in bold letters. “Besides, no one can see you.”

 

Enjolras barely has the chance to register what Grantaire’s doing, when he realizes he’s wearing his red blazer, a pair of form-fitting jeans, and his old combat boots. Except they’re polished. He frowns. The last time he saw them, they were barely recognizable from all the mud.

 

“Well that’s one way to get me to say yes,” Enjolras mutters to himself.

 

“Hmm?” Grantaire barely spares him a glance. He shoves Enjolras out through the main entrance, through a crowd of people. Enjolras wonders what they’re doing there. “Would you stop slowing down? We’re going to be late.”

 

“Late for what?” Enjolras asks. He narrows his eyes. “Hey, where’s Jehan? They weren’t in the room when we left.”

 

Grantaire gives him a surprised look as they cross the parking lot. It’s rather blinding out here. “You didn’t notice? They went to get tea. We passed them in the cafeteria.”

 

“Oh.” Enjolras wishes they’d pause their rushed walking, just for a moment, so he could appreciate what’s around him. He’s never really been one for nature, but he has to admit, it’s nice being outside for a chance. There’s trees and the sky is blue, and a dragonfly buzzes inches away from Enjolras’ face –

 

And Grantaire is ruining it, again.

 

“Seriously, what’s the rush?” Enjolras asks.

 

Grantaire turns around to face him and cocks his head to the side. “I have a better idea.”

 

“What the hell-“

 

Enjolras pauses in the middle of his sentence and blinks. A moment ago, he was surrounded by green trees and cars, and there was cement underneath his feet. Now, as he looks around, he realizes he’s in the Musain. He sees Musichetta behind the bar, laughing as she serves a customer a cup of coffee – so his memory hasn’t failed him. Good. But what’s going on?

 

“ _What the hell?”_ Enjolras hisses. “Care to explain?”

 

Grantaire gazes around. “Not really.”

 

“That wasn’t a question,” Enjolras says. He gets more irritated every time Grantaire opens his mouth.

 

“You phrased it like one,” Grantaire retorts.

 

Enjolras huffs angrily. He yanks his wrist away from Grantaire’s tight grip and folds his arms defensively across his chest. “What are we doing here? I’m kind of _dying._ ”

 

“You wouldn’t say yes to me,” Grantaire states. He hesitates before continuing. “So I wanted to show you how your friends are dealing with this.”

 

Enjolras frowns. What in the hell is he talking about? None of his friends, except for Musichetta (and no, Grantaire doesn’t count; he’s more like a pest), are even here. Is this another cruel joke?

 

“Right. That would be a nice plan, if my friends were even here,” Enjolras says.

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything. He simply looks over at the wooden door, and gives Enjolras a small, wry smile. Enjolras is about to tell him how stupid this all is, when he hears the familiar ping of the bell by the door. He follows Grantaire’s gaze.

 

Feuilly and Bahorel come stumbling through the door. Feuilly looks like he’s been awake for the past forty-eight hours, which, knowing him, is entirely possible. Bahorel, on the other hand, is smiling widely, even though one of his eyes is extremely purple and swollen and both of his fists are wrapped in cloth bandages. They make their way right past Enjolras and Grantaire, and head towards one of the booths at the back. Enjolras recognizes it, and feels a familiar wave of sadness – the booth they’re headed for is the one Les Amis always gather at.

 

There’s even a little sticker on the corner of the window that reads _Les Amis Private Property_.

 

“What are we doing here?” Enjolras hisses, turning his gaze back to Grantaire. He subconsciously expects Feuilly, or Bahorel, to hear him, but they don’t.

 

Grantaire nudges his shoulder and looks over at the booth. “Patience, Enjolras.”

 

“You’re not helpful,” Enjolras mutters.

 

Grantaire smiles. “It’s not in my job description.”

 

Enjolras pulls a chair up to the booth and crosses his arms. He’s expecting something incredible to happen, like all of his friends dropping dead, or a rift opening up in the ground below. He’s learned not to question Grantaire’s choices, but as he sits and watches Feuilly and Bahorel, he’s left feeling oddly suspicious. What could Grantaire possibly bring him here for?

 

“Part two,” Grantaire whispers, leaning in close. Enjolras feels a shiver run down his spine, and he instinctively turns towards the door.

 

Eponine, Marius, and Cosette enter the café, laughing jovially with one another. Cosette takes off her soft pink scarf and places it on the coat hanger by the door, along with her white petticoat. Eponine carelessly tosses her frayed leather jacket beside it, nearly missing the peg.

 

_What a pair they make,_ Enjolras thinks, watching them approach the table. Like the others, they don’t see him.

 

Marius leans against the window and sighs. He looks more solemn than Enjolras has ever seen him, and so does Cosette. The two people he always sees smiling, in one way or another, are now sharing glances filled with obvious sorrow.

 

_Is this-_

“Is this about me?” Enjolras gasps.

 

Grantaire doesn’t answer him. He just continues staring at the small gathering of Les Amis, a determined look on his face.

 

_Fine. Be like that._ Enjolras turns his attention back to his friends. When Grantaire steals a quick, concerned glance at him, Enjolras pretends not to notice.

 

~

 

“I hope this is okay,” Musichetta says, placing mugs of steaming tea in front of Eponine and Cosette. Joly and Bossuet appear after her, and they set down the remainder of the tea.

 

Eponine shrugs from where she’s cramped between Cosette and the window. “Sure.”

 

Musichetta sighs at her boyfriends. She thought everyone would at least be in a chatty mood, but this… well, at least she got them all together. She hasn’t seen much of anyone ever since The Accident.

 

“We can talk about it,” Musichetta suggests, perching herself on the edge of a nearby table. “If you want. Or, you know, we can _not_ talk about it. Whatever you guys want.”

 

Bossuet shifts awkwardly by the table. “I think we should… you know. Give it a try?”

 

“Yeah, no.” Eponine shakes her head. “I didn’t come here for a confession circle, or whatever kind of shit you want us to do.”

 

“I don’t want you to do any kind of shit, Eponine. I just… listen, I know it’s been hard for all of us, okay? But we need to stop using it as an excuse to mope around all day. We have _lives._ I have a café I need to run, and I can’t just put that all aside.” Musichetta pauses. “Just think, guys. What would Enjolras want you to do? Not mope around, I can tell you that.”

 

No one says anything, and for a while all Musichetta can hear is the rush of cars outside, and the soft murmur of other customers milling around the café. She’s out of ways to help her friends cope with… whatever this is (no one’s giving it a name yet, because names mean finality and they’re not ready for that), and she just wishes they’d cooperate.

 

“Should we tell them?” Joly asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

 

Musichetta blinks. “Tell who?”

 

“His parents,” Joly says. He glances around uncomfortably, like he wishes someone else would’ve brought this up. “I mean, Ferre told me they deserve to know, so…”

 

“We can decide that later.” Musichetta takes a sip of her own warm tea and smiles gently at her friends. She knows it’s tough, and she wishes this never even happened, but she can’t change the past. The least she can do is be there for her friends, and so that’s what she’ll do.

 

~

 

“My parents,” Enjolras says. His voice is so quiet, he can barely hear it himself.

 

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “I feel like there’s more to this story than what your friends are telling.”

 

“No.” Enjolras pauses. “I mean, yes, there’s more, but it’s not important-“

 

“Everything is important.”

 

Enjolras glances up at Grantaire and narrows his eyes. What could possibly be so interesting about his parents? Why does Grantaire even care? Deciding it’s not really worth his time to try and analyze Grantaire’s motives, Enjolras looks back at his friends and sighs. He slumps in his chair.

 

“We, uh, we didn’t get along very well.” Enjolras closes his eyes and takes a deep, shaky breath. He hates telling people about his parents. “I mean, me and my mom did. Most of the time, anyways. But my dad… he was one of those ‘son, you have to go to law school and marry a rich wife and have children and be just like me’ dads, if you know what I mean. He kept forcing daughters of friends on me, telling me which law schools and business schools would accept me because he donated to them, what colour my tie should be for a walk in the park… it was just so frustrating, you know? I had no freedom, no say in anything.”

 

Grantaire frowns. “Would you have gotten into those schools without your father’s donations?”

 

“Well.” Enjolras scratches the back of his neck and shrugs. “I guess. I was a good student. But, anyways, my mom tried to help me out. When I told her I… I-“

 

“You what?” Grantaire prompts, smiling softly.

 

Enjolras takes another deep breath. Death can’t be judgemental, right? “When I told her I was… I was gay-“

 

“Was?”

 

“Am,” Enjolras corrects. He returns Grantaire’s smile. Maybe this won’t be such a terrible thing after all. “She tried to get my dad to stop setting me up with girls. He didn’t listen. Both my parents are super religious – Catholics – except my mom’s one of those “the Lord creates everyone equally” people, and my dad’s a straight-out homophobe.” Enjolras pauses, and laughs quietly. “When I was fourteen, my dad thought I was part of a Satanic cult – he thinks all gay people are – so he sent me to Bible Camp for the entire summer. It was terrible.”

 

Grantaire throws his head backs and laughs wholeheartedly. Enjolras likes his laugh. It’s deep, and rich, and surprisingly pleasant. “Your father sounds horrible.”

 

“He is,” Enjolras agrees. He frowns down at his lap. “Was.”

 

Grantaire tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

 

“When I turned eighteen,” Enjolras continues. “I picked up and moved here, to Paris. I haven’t spoken to my parents in three years.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything. He nods, like he’s still trying to process everything. This usually happens when Enjolras tells people his life story – either they take pity on him, or they spend hours staring blankly at a wall because something doesn’t make sense. It’s like they’re thinking, _how could some rich boy not be happy with his family?_ Enjolras stopped trying to explain it to them a long time ago.

 

“I see,” Grantaire says. He points at Enjolras’ friends. “But do you?”

 

“What?” Enjolras asks, confused. Sometimes, he can’t believe the amount of nonsense coming out of Grantaire’s mouth.

 

_What is he talking about?_

“I brought you here,” Grantaire says, sighing. “So you could see how your friends are coping with this… tragic incident. Every day you say no is another day they spend in grief. You’re so caught up in your “what’s dead should stay dead” philosophy that you can’t even open your eyes to the sorrow your friends are experiencing. Don’t you see? They need you.”

 

Enjolras swallows. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t know what to say. What is there to say? Grantaire has a point – a good point. Enjolras didn’t really think about his friends before, and now… well, he’s not sure he’s ever seen Eponine cry. How could he have been so blind?

 

“What can I do?” Enjolras asks, his voice frantic. He wants to help his friends. He hates seeing them like this.

 

Grantaire gives him a solemn look. “You know what you need to do.”

 

Enjolras bites his lip. He’s been trying to avoid this for so long, even though he knew all along it was inevitable. Eventually, he’d give in and say it. But he never thought it would happen now, and not in circumstances like this. There’s no good in thinking about it, anyways, because he knows he’s going to say yes. It’s the only thing he can do to help his friends out, and they’ve always been more important.

 

“Well?” Grantaire asks, raising an eyebrow. He looks impatient.

 

“Yes,” Enjolras says. He nods. “Yes, I give you permission to bring me back.”

 

Grantaire smiles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, Enjolras' dad sounds like a total jackass (he is). Bear with me. Also, please note that I don't think of religious Catholics like this at all!! That's just how I imagine his dad, so...
> 
> Come see me new Supernatural meta blog, if you're interested! I haven't posted my own stuff yet (I'm too scared, eek! Should I? Aah!)... anyways, it's cassifiedinformation (if you get my pun I love you).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mes amis!!!! I'm so sorry it took me so long to upload this chapter, I've been having eye problems lately and it's been kind of hard to write (or read, which sucks because I just got new books). If you're still reading this fic, I love you very much, and you are what keeps me going. Enjoy!
> 
> This one goes out to my dear friend Ania, who just recently learned I write fanfiction and is the kindest person I know. <3

Enjolras opens his eyes and takes a deep breath. He blinks at his unfamiliar surroundings – there’s a blanket on him, and a beeping noise coming from some sort of machine. It only takes a second for everything to register: Enjolras is in the hospital, after getting shot on accident at a protest-gone-wrong. The machine at his side is a monitor. There’s an oxygen mask around his face. Enjolras attempts to turn over, but his arm feels too sore. Upon further inspection, he realizes there’s an IV attached to it. That explains a lot.

 

He smiles a little to himself, thinking about how wonderful it is to wake up in his corporeal body. From what he can tell, Grantaire isn’t in the room, but that’s okay. Enjolras is just grateful that he’s breathing, even if he spent weeks worrying his friends.

 

He’s drifting in and out of sleep, so he barely notices when a nurse comes running up to his monitor, eyes wide in alarm, screaming something in a loud, frantic voice because something changed. He turns his head and blinks up at her. From what he can tell, there doesn’t seem to be a problem.

 

Very slowly, the nurse turns her head towards him. Her eyes go even wider, and she freezes in her place.

 

Everything happens in a blur. One minute, the nurse is at his side, and the next, she’s gone, and Combeferre is in her place.

 

Enjolras doesn’t really know what to say, so all he does is stare at his friend. Combeferre stares back.

 

“Holy shit,” Combeferre says.

 

He runs away before Enjolras can say anything. Sighing, Enjolras turns to the chair in front of the hospital bed, expecting to see Grantaire there, grinning at him with that Cheshire-cat grin of his.

 

Grantaire isn’t there. Enjolras is only a little disheartened.

 

-

 

By the time Combeferre returns, Enjolras has already eaten four cups of pudding, and there’s a collection of empty water bottles at his side. The nurse, Marie (no, she didn’t tell Enjolras, he just overheard her talk to someone else), told him he had to “drink a lot” in a very concerned voice, and so that’s what he’s been doing for the past half an hour. He doesn’t even have to go to the bathroom yet.

 

Enjolras is halfway through his fifth cup of chocolate-flavoured gelatinous animal body-parts when the door opens, and Marie ushers a frantic Combeferre in. Courfeyrac is right behind him, looking somewhat sceptical, but also rather confused.

 

“Ferre.” Courfeyrac pauses and his eyes go wide. He stares at Enjolras in disbelief. “What. The. Fuck. When I… he was… I mean – how?”

 

Combeferre shakes his head. “I don’t know, Courf. I just… I don’t know. He just got better, somehow.”

 

“ _He,_ ” Enjolras states, throwing his empty pudding cup in the trash can by his bed. “Is right here. And _he_ can talk and hear you guys just fine.”

 

“Sorry,” Courfeyrac says sheepishly. “It’s just… it’s kind of sudden. The doctor told us there was a low chance of you…”

 

“Well, I’m alive.”

 

Combeferre shoots Courfeyrac a glare before making his way over to Enjolras’ bed. He cautiously sits down on the edge of the bed, and tentatively reaches his hand out. He’s trying to be supportive. It’s working. Enjolras takes his hand.

 

“How are you doing?” Combeferre asks.

 

“I’m alive, aren’t I?” Enjolras snorts.

 

Combeferre rolls his eyes, even though he’s smiling. “I mean… how are you feeling?”

 

“I’m fine.” Enjolras shrugs and picks at his blanket. “I mean, I’m kind of sore and all that, but otherwise, I’m… I’m fine, really.”

 

Combeferre doesn’t say anything for a while. Enjolras frowns. Did something happen to him? Did something go wrong? Does he have permanent damage? He wonders if Grantaire would’ve told him if he had asked, but then dismisses the thought. Grantaire’s gone now, right? For the time being, anyways. Enjolras shouldn’t think about him.

 

“What do you remember?” Combeferre asks suddenly.

 

“Everything,” Enjolras says. “I don’t have retrograde amnesia or anything. My brain is functioning like it always did.” 

 

“That’s good,” Combeferre says. He looks at Courfeyrac, who’s still frozen in the doorway. “You can come in, you know.”

 

Courfeyrac awkwardly makes his way over to the bed. He drags a chair with him, which he pulls right up to where Combeferre’s sitting. He gives Enjolras a tentative smile.

 

“Hi, Courf,” Enjolras says, returning the smile. He missed his friends, and he’s so happy to have them back.

 

Courfeyrac sighs. “Oh, who am I kidding?”

 

He abruptly tugs Enjolras in for a hug, his arms wrapped tightly around his back. Enjolras rests his chin on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, smiling to himself. He isn’t normally one for physical affection, but he’ll make an exception this time. Courfeyrac must’ve gone through a lot while he was in the hospital, and a hug is the least he deserves.

 

“I’m sure everyone else would love to come see you,” Combeferre says, clearing his throat.

 

Enjolras pulls back and gives Courfeyrac a warm, gentle smile before turning to Combeferre. He nods. “Okay.”

 

Combeferre takes his phone out. “Great, I’ll just… I’ll let everyone know, then.”

 

He steps out of the room with his phone pressed against his ear, the door swinging shut behind him. For a moment, Enjolras swears he sees a pair of glowing blue eyes, but when he looks again, they aren’t there.

 

~

 

Courfeyrac is half asleep on a comfortable chair outside Enjolras’ hospital room, when he hears a sudden noise and jolts awake. It sounds like someone’s talking.

 

_“What are you doing back?”_

 

The voice sounds suspiciously like Enjolras. Courfeyrac frowns at the wall behind him. Who could he be talking to? He wonders if maybe Enjolras directed it to him, but that wouldn’t make sense. He stays quiet, and tries to hear more of the conversation.

 

He doesn’t hear anyone else, but it doesn’t take long until Enjolras is talking again.

 

_“Well, if you’d tell me the plans you have, everything would be easier.”_

 

Courfeyrac is incredibly confused. Plans? What plans? And who is Enjolras talking to? He hastily pulls his phone out, and dials Combeferre. Maybe he’ll know.

 

“What’s up?” Combeferre asks. From the other side of the line, there’s a thud and a half-muttered string of curse words.

 

Courfeyrac adjusts his phone so he can still eat out of his half-empty bag of chips. “What was that?”

 

“Oh, nothing. I was just, uh, helping Chetta out.”

 

“You’re… what?”

 

Combeferre sighs loudly. “Chetta needs help bringing in the new dishes, so I offered to help her. What’s up with you?”

 

“Did you, uh… did you send anyone else to see Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks.

 

There’s a long, unpleasantly worrying silence. Courfeyrac feels uneasy, so he shifts in his chair and stares into Enjolras’ room. He can’t see anyone.

 

“No,” Combeferre says, slowly. He sounds unsure. “Maybe I did, but I don’t remember… why are you asking this?”

 

“Um, well.” Courfeyrac pauses and bites his lip. His mind is wandering into all sorts of scary thoughts. “Enjolras is, uh, well… he’s talking to someone who isn’t… not exactly there?”

 

There’s another dreadful pause. “You mean to tell me that Enjolras is talking to no one? To someone he’s imagining?”

 

“Uh, I guess, you can put it that way.”

 

“He told me he was fine.” Combeferre lets out an irritated sigh. “Why did he think he had to lie?”

 

Courfeyrac frowns. “Aren’t you concerned? Enjolras is talking to someone _who’s not there_.”

 

“Yeah, I am, but I’m more concerned that he didn’t tell me.”

 

Courfeyrac looks back at the window. Enjolras is very seriously staring at a block of wall, an expression of annoyance painted on his face. He keeps talking to it, and then he acts like he expects it to respond.

 

_“Don’t you have better things to do? Other people to reap?”_

Enjolras pauses, eyes narrowed at the wall. Courfeyrac tilts his head, confused. People to reap? What is that even supposed to mean?

 

_“Oh, come on, Grantaire! Stop being so immature, and talk to me.”_

Courfeyrac slowly pulls his phone back up. “He named the person-who’s-not-there Grantaire. And apparently Grantaire reaps people.”

 

“What?” Combeferre asks. “Never mind. Grantaire? You’d think he’d be a little more creative.”

 

“Ferre, seriously. Stop joking around. Enjolras is talking to a made-up person named _Grantaire_ , who reaps people, and isn’t talking back to him. I’m worried, god, I’m so worried I can’t think. What are we supposed to do?”

 

Combeferre sighs. “I’m worried too, Courf. If you want, I’ll let his doctor know, and we can decide what to do from there.”

 

Courfeyrac is about to respond, but then he hears something rather interesting from Enjolras’ room. “Hold on,” he says.

 

Somehow, Enjolras sounds deadly, ominously serious as he speaks, even though what he’s talking about is all fiction. It’s completely made-up. Right?

 

_“The Scrolls of Death?”_

 

~

 

“The Scrolls of Death?” Enjolras repeats, an eyebrow raised.

 

Grantaire sighs. “Yes, I am well aware it sounds fictional-“

 

“It probably is! Didn’t you say it’s a “legend”, anyways?”

 

“It is,” Grantaire agrees. “But there’s been a lot of unusual demon activity in the Sahara – where the Scrolls are supposedly buried – and we still need to be safe. Besides, I _know_ it’s real.”

 

“So now there’s demons?” Enjolras scoffs and shakes his head. He can’t believe what his life has turned into. “Listen, your little crusade sounds great and all that, but how am I connected to any of this?”

 

Grantaire stares at Enjolras with those haunting blue eyes for a moment. He seems rather hesitant to answer. “A long time ago, you were chosen as the one who would either save the world, or break it. You are the only one who can decipher the Scrolls, or even find their true location. I told you, you’re more important than you could ever imagine.”

 

Enjolras looks down at his hands. He doesn’t want to be responsible for something as crushingly heavy as the entire world. Why did it have to be him? “I can’t handle something that big.”

 

Grantaire tilts his head in that curious way of his. There’s something dark and unsettling in his blue eyes. “You really think we would have left you untrained?”

 

“Untrained?” Enjolras repeats, eyes narrowed. “What does that even mean?”

 

“It means,” Grantaire pauses and glances out the window. “Fate has chosen you, Enjolras, and so it was up to us to train you. Your whole life has been a series of obstacles that were meant to prepare you for the war.”

 

_Enjolras is about to walk home, when he sees the new kid getting beat up in the school parking lot. Without even thinking, he runs up to the bullies, and knocks one of them to the ground. In the fight that happens, the new kid manages to escape, but not before he whispers a little “thank you”. That day, Enjolras comes home covered in bruises and wounds, but it’s all worth it._

_Enjolras shows up to his school’s Annual Sports Day, even though he doesn’t really want to. Most of the stations don’t look interesting, but just as Courfeyrac comes up with the brilliant idea to try synchronised swimming, Enjolras notices the axe-throwing booth. Combeferre tells him it’s a bad idea, but he doesn’t care. He boldly approaches the booth and hands over one of his yellow tickets, asks to play. The ax feels heavy in his hands, but when he looks at the target, it suddenly feels incredibly light. Like he’s cupping all the air in the world in the palm of his hand. And the target – he doesn’t see a bright red and black bullseye. He sees his father. Enjolras narrows his eyes and throws the ax. He wishes it had been his father._

_Enjolras sits in the little room at the back of his church they use for bible lessons. He’s supposed to be organizing the shelf of bibles at the back, because several kids had decided to take all of them out. But instead, he’s staring at one of the many angel statues on the windowsill. This one’s old, made out of a rough stone. Its wings loom ominously by its side, and it looks as if it’s going to cry. Enjolras has that feeling, too. He doesn’t feel sad now, though. He feels angry. His instructors keep telling him that the angels “care”, and will “guide you if you open up your heart to them”. But if the angels care so much, why haven’t they come down yet? Why haven’t they helped him yet? Enjolras has tried to open up so many times, more than he can count, but nothing ever happens. He screams at the sky-painted ceiling, “I need your help, dammit! Why won’t you answer me?” And then he smashes the statue._

“My life,” Enjolras says, breathless. He blinks at Grantaire in shock. “My life wasn’t… I had no free will.”

 

“You humans seem to care so much about free will, don’t you?” Grantaire sighs. “What does it matter to someone, anyways, whether they had a choice or not? Their life is meaningless, in the end. Everything fades away, and barely anyone is remembered past their time.”

 

“But you… from what you’ve been telling me, I’m getting the idea that my life _is_ meaningful. Right?”

 

Grantaire nods. “Right. But we had to prepare you somehow, Enjolras. You had free will, don’t get me wrong. But not everything was in your hands, and not everything will ever be.”

 

Enjolras looks down at the floor. He can’t quite comprehend everything right now – it’s too much new information being thrust down his throat at one time. Couldn’t Grantaire tell him everything in chunks? Well, there’s no point worrying about it. He knows now why Grantaire saved him, and why he was chosen. He knows there’s a bunch of scrolls somewhere in the Sahara he has to decipher, and that he’s the key to stopping some war he knows nothing about. For a moment, Enjolras wonders why it had to be him. He doesn’t really think he’s qualified for this job.

 

“Did I overwhelm you?” Grantaire asks. His voice seems uncharacteristically small.

 

“You think?” Enjolras spits. His throat burns like fire. He sighs. “I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s a lot. Give me some time, okay? I’m sorry.”

 

Grantaire nods. “Sure. I can give you all the time you need.”

 

He disappears before Enjolras can say anything else. Feeling rather guilty, Enjolras slumps back down on his bed and stares up at the blank ceiling. There’s a bag of flavourless, unsalted crackers waiting by his bed, but he doesn’t feel like eating them right now. Enjolras can see Courfeyrac outside the room, but he doesn’t call him in. He’s not in the mood to talk to anyone right now. Sighing, Enjolras closes his eyes and attempts to get some sleep.

 

He dreams of misty forests, broken pieces of stone, and eyes that rise and fall like the ocean tide.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently read Aristotle and Dante and it's So Good. Talk to me about it on tumblr. Or Supernatural, that's good too. :)
> 
> P.S. I'm thinking of holding a Q&A about this fic, if you guys are interested. It'll be later on, though. Let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to upload this soon, but I'm sorry I was kind of bad with that. I swear the next one will be up within a few days - it's almost done. Thanks to everyone who continues to read this fic, even though I suck with uploading! <3 I hope you enjoy, mes amis!!

“I’m afraid there isn’t much we can do.”

 

Combeferre blinks. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. “What do you mean?”

 

“It isn’t all that complicated,” the doctor sighs. He adjusts his clipboard and tucks it under his arm. “It’s a coping mechanism.”

 

“A what?” Combeferre’s starting to lose his patience, and the day’s just beginning.

 

“A coping mechanism. Sometimes, when people go through what Enjolras did, they develop imaginary friends. It’s common with abused children. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

 

Combeferre crosses his arms furiously. “There has to be something. Anything. Just give me something.”

 

“If there was something, I would have told you about it already.” The doctor gives him a comforting pat on the arm. His hand feels distantly cold. “Just give it some time.”

 

Combeferre glances over at Enjolras’ room. He doesn’t know how much time he has left to give it.

 

~

 

“I have to go meet with Atropos today.”

 

Enjolras picks at his blanket. “Fine with me.”

 

“What’s gotten into you lately?” Grantaire asks. He’s leaning against the window, like he always does.

 

Enjolras doesn’t really feel like answering that, but something about the way Grantaire’s looking at him compels him to anyways. “My friends think I’ve gone insane. _Insane._ Why the hell would they think that?”

 

“Why wouldn’t they?” Grantaire asks, an eyebrow lifted.

 

Enjolras opens his mouth to respond, but the door suddenly swings open, and Courfeyrac tentatively steps into the room. He looks uncomfortable. Enjolras frowns at him. Snickering quietly, Grantaire steps back, so that he doesn’t block the entrance.

 

“What’s wrong?” Enjolras blurts.

 

Courfeyrac shakes his head too soon. “Nothing.” His voice is high-pitched. “Nothing’s wrong. Why would you think that? Who told you… everything’s fine. No need to be worried. All good.”

 

Enjolras blinks. He’s rather confused. “Okay?”

 

“I have to go soon,” Grantaire says, sighing. He sneaks a glance at his shining wristwatch. It’s probably gold. Because immortal beings can afford that. “So make this quick, please. I still need to have a word with you in private.”

 

“Then just go already, no one’s asking you to stay,” Enjolras mutters. He crosses his arms, irritated.

 

Courfeyrac tilts his head to the side. “I’m… sorry? I’ll just… leave you, if you want-“

 

“Wait! Courf, no, I wasn’t talking to you, I was-“ Enjolras pauses. He turns his gaze back to Grantaire, who is now perched on the edge of his bed, smiling idiotically. “Grantaire. Why did Courf think I was talking to him?”  


“You weren’t talking to me? Then who…” Courfeyrac doesn’t finish the sentence. His voice trails off.

 

Grantaire doesn’t answer the question. He turns his gaze to the window, eyes dancing with sunlight. Of course. Enjolras shouldn’t have expected anything else.

 

“Fine, don’t tell me,” Enjolras hisses. He glares at Grantaire, who isn’t paying him any attention, before turning back to Courfeyrac. “Um, I wasn’t telling you to leave, Courf. I was… I mean, Grantaire, he’s… he has to do some stuff.”

 

“You were talking to him.” Courfeyrac sounds concerned. Not hurt.

 

Enjolras feels like an infant, and he awkwardly clears his throat. He hates when his friends walk on eggshells around him. He’s not fragile, not broken… why would they ever think that?

 

Enjolras nods. “Yeah.”

 

There’s a stretch of unwavering silence. Grantaire sighs loudly. Enjolras ignores him.

 

“Okay,” Courfeyrac says finally. He doesn’t sound like he agrees with himself. Enjolras certainly doesn’t, but what does that matter? He’s the one talking to Death. He’s the one everyone thinks has gone utterly insane. He doesn’t get a say in what’s “okay” anymore. “I just came in to… to check up on you. Have, um, have fun. I guess? Let me know if you need anything – or Ferre, he’s outside, too. One of us. Or both of us, that’s good-“

 

“Courf.” Enjolras gives him a gentle smile. Courfeyrac looks so frantic, and he hates it. He hates it because it’s all his fault – all because he had to go and get shot in the first place.  “I’ll let you know if I need anything. Don’t worry.”

 

Courfeyrac nods, more to himself than to anyone else, and promptly exists the room. The door closes softly behind him.

 

“I’m going now,” Grantaire says.

 

He doesn’t wait for Enjolras to respond.

 

~

 

“A case of the crazies, huh?”

 

Combeferre sighs and repositions his phone. He mouths a silent “thank you” to Courfeyrac, who hands him a cup of coffee. “No, Eponine. It’s not “a case of the crazies”. It’s serious.”

 

“Okay, I’m sorry, I’ll be serious from now on.” Eponine pauses. “What did the doctor say?”

 

“Don’t get me started. He said there wasn’t anything they could do, and that it’s “common in abused children”.”

 

Eponine chokes on whatever she’s drinking. Combeferre can hear Cosette’s fairy laughter in the background. “Enj isn’t a child, and he wasn’t abused. So… the hell? Who does this guy think he is?”

 

“Someone who earned a PhD in medicine, and earns more money than all of us combined,” Combeferre replies. He shrugs to himself. “I don’t know, okay? All I have is what the doctor told me.”

 

“Did he say anything else?” Eponine’s voice is commanding, determined. Combeferre briefly remembers Cosette telling him that Eponine uses that voice in the bedroom, and he tries to dismiss the thought. Why does his brain always do this at the most inappropriate times?

 

“Only that I should give it time, and that it’ll go away eventually. That’s all, Ponine.”

 

Eponine sighs. “Stupid fucking doctors.”

 

“Stupid fucking doctors,” Combeferre agrees.

 

~

 

Atropos is giving Grantaire her signature look, her head tilted, and her lips pursed. Her eyes are narrowed, but that doesn’t diminish their dark power.

 

“Your silence is making me worried,” Grantaire says. He feels small, unimportant, when faced with the Fates, and sometimes he feels like he’s only allowed to speak when spoken to.

 

Atropos remains silent for another moment. “My silence? I’m just thinking.”

 

“What about?”

 

“How’s your mission going, Grantaire?” Atropos’ voice is cold, cutting. She’s not trying to play friendly. Grantaire stopped expecting her to a very long time ago.

 

“Fine.”

 

Atropos raises in eyebrow, but she doesn’t say anything.

 

“He said yes,” Grantaire continues, stirring the little pink umbrella in the drink Atropos ordered for him. He has no idea what it is, but he doesn’t really care. “But we may have another problem.”

 

The flash of joy on Atropos’ marble face dissipates. “Problem?”

 

“His friends,” Grantaire elaborates. “How should I break the news to them?”

 

“You don’t.” Atropos’ voice rings out in the crowded bar. She sounds dead serious, which is unfortunate.

 

Grantaire blinks at her. “What? They must know. They’re his friends.”

 

“And how would it help you, if they know?”

 

Grantaire is speechless for a moment. He wasn’t prepared for Atropos to ask such a question – usually, she agrees with him on these things. He frowns down at his drink, unsure of what to say. And then the thought hits him.

 

“An army,” he blurts. Atropos raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “If his friends know, we’ll have more allies. People to help us, when the time comes.”

 

“That’s what-“

 

“Don’t. Don’t even think about _them_. They’re not a part of this, and they never will be. I made that clear a long time ago.”

 

Atropos is silent. “You cannot hide from them forever, Grantaire. You will have to call upon them eventually, for their help or not. It does not matter. They will know. They will feel it, and you know that. Your warding will not keep them away for long.”

 

Grantaire knows. He knows they’ll come, for Enjolras or for him. He knows it won’t take long. But he’s going to try and hold them off for as long as he can, even if it won’t help him much.

 

~

 

Combeferre really needs to learn the doctor’s name, because if he’s ever going to get to damn someone to hell, that guy’s definitely going first.

 

“Okay, just explain it again. What did he do this time?” Feuilly asks. He’s sitting across from Combeferre, at the Musain. Courfeyrac’s at his side, innocently vacuuming up some type of caramel coffee.

 

Combeferre sighs into his hand. “He said Enjolras can be released in a few days. They’re moving him to a temporary room.”

 

“But that’s good,” Feuilly says slowly. He sounds unsure. Everyone does these days.

 

“That’s good,” Courfeyrac repeats.

 

They share an insecure glance, and then Feuilly turns back to Combeferre and leans forward across the table.

 

“How is this a bad thing?” He asks.

 

“It’s a bad thing,” Combeferre explains. He’s fully aware he sounds irritated and grumpy, but he doesn’t even try to change that, because he’s only trying to be honest. He is irritated and grumpy. There’s no point masking that, anyways.

 

“But how?” Feuilly presses.

 

Combeferre takes a chunk out of his blueberry muffin and chews it slowly. He’s trying to buy time, because he doesn’t really know what he wants to say. “It’s just a bad thing.”

 

“Do you even know what an answer is?”

 

Combeferre discreetly glances at Courfeyrac, who’s still avoiding him. They’ve been awkwardly avoiding each other since last night, when Combeferre told him he was too much of a child to handle the responsibilities of their current situation. He regrets ever saying that, but there’s no point in apologizing right now. It would be too much at once, even for him.

 

“I know what an answer is,” Combeferre says, trying to keep his cool. “And if you want one, I’ll give it to you. The doctor isn’t doing anything about Enjolras, all right? He’s not… he doesn’t care that Enjolras is talking to someone who isn’t there, and that it sometimes feels like he’s so wrapped up in his own world it’s going to suffocate him. The doctor just doesn’t care, okay? And I’m sick of it. I’m sick and tired.”

 

Feuilly sighs. He probably wasn’t expecting this, because it takes him a bit longer to gather his thoughts. “I hate to break it to you, Ferre, but I don’t think there’s much you can do. I’m hoping Enjolras will get back to normal soon. We all are.”

 

“There’s no going back to normal after this.” Combeferre’s voice breaks in the middle of his sentence, barely above a whisper.

 

He’s broken, so broken from pulling everyone’s weight. He’s been carrying the world on his shoulders, but he’s just not strong enough anymore.

 

Silently, Feuilly stands up and pats his arm. He offers a warm, comforting smile before disappearing from Combeferre’s line of vision.

 

It’s then, after Feuilly’s surely gone, Combeferre breaks. He rests his head on his arms, sobbing quietly. He doesn’t know if he can handle everything anymore. He hasn’t gotten any sleep for the past four days. Courfeyrac’s ignoring him. Musichetta keeps sending him looks of pity, but that isn’t what he wants, he wants help. He wants someone to pull him up, fix him, assure him that everything’s going to be all right.

 

He’s still crying when Courfeyrac sits beside him, and slings an arm across his shoulders. He lets himself rest on Courfeyrac. Neither of them say anything: the comfort is all Combeferre needs. And maybe it’s better that way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... about that Q&A idea I had... thoughts? Also, if anyone has tips on learning calligraphy, I'd love to hear them! I'm planning on taking that up this summer. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, mes amis! I'm so sorry this took longer than I said it would, I went to a concert this week and my entire schedule is kind of messed up. But here it is! Thank you to everyone who's still reading this fic, even though I'm horrible with updating. :)

Grantaire is leaning against the window in his new room, staring at Enjolras with that curious expression of his. Enjolras tries to look away, ignore him, but he’s so hypnotically mesmerizing, with his head tilted and haunting eyes narrowed. Enjolras hates when he does that. He likes the blue of his eyes.

 

“What?” He asks, lips curled up in an uncontrollable smile. He slowly sets his book down.

 

Grantaire shrugs absentmindedly. “Nothing. Haven’t you noticed I like observing mankind?”

 

“I have.” Enjolras laughs softly. “But that’s not your observing face.”

 

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. He’s smiling now, too. “Oh?”

 

Enjolras nods. “That’s your ‘Enjolras, I have something important to tell you’ face. So what is it this time?”

 

There’s a pause of silence that makes Enjolras uneasy. He wonders if maybe he overstepped his boundaries, if his friendliness is too much, and his heart sinks. From everything Grantaire’s already told him, it seems like they’re going to be stuck with one another for quite a while. He’d rather they be friends. It’d make this whole thing – whatever _this_ is – easier.

 

“I think I’ll let Courfeyrac tell you. He seems more excited than I could ever possibly be.”

 

Enjolras is about to ask what, exactly, he’s going to be told, but the door suddenly slams open and Courfeyrac himself comes bouncing in. He’s smiling widely. So this must be good news. Enjolras casts a quick glance in Grantaire’s direction, but Grantaire doesn’t tell him anything. He thinks he sees something falter in Courfeyrac’s smile, but it’s probably just his imagination.

 

“I have good news!” Courfeyrac squeaks, bouncing on his heels.

 

“What?” Enjolras asks. He keeps glancing back at Grantaire, and every time, Courfeyrac’s happy expression seems to dim a little. He wonders why.

 

“You’re going to be released in less than a week! Isn’t that exciting? I can’t wait to take you back to the Musain, Chetta added something new to the menu, and…”

 

 “I’m not entirely sure that’s as good as Courfeyrac says it is,” Grantaire says, his voice cold and cutting.

 

Enjolras stops listening to Courfeyrac, and focuses his attention on Grantaire. Why wouldn’t this be a good thing? He absolutely hates the cramped room they stuck him in now, and he’s afraid he’s going to have to share it with someone else. For now, there’s just an empty bed on the other side of the curtain, which Grantaire takes over during the night. He pulls back the curtain, and they both lay on their sides and talk until Enjolras gets too tired to properly articulate his thoughts. Even if he falls asleep without one, he always wakes up with a blanket on him. He doesn’t think Grantaire wants him to know he does that, so he never says anything.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Courfeyrac frowns, eyebrows knit together in confusion. Enjolras is half-paying attention to him now. “What? It’s lavender lemonade. It’s just, like, lemonade and lavender-“

 

“How could it not be a good thing?” Enjolras asks. His voice is urgent. He wants an answer, something Grantaire’s never been especially good at.

 

Courfeyrac slumps. He nods to himself. “Oh, okay, I’ll just… I’ll be outside, then. You, um… I’ll see you later.”

 

Before Enjolras can say anything, Courfeyrac exists his room. The door closes quietly, sadly. Enjolras instantly feels horrible. He should’ve told Courfeyrac who he was talking to, because how was he supposed to know the question was directed to Grantaire?

 

And then it hits him. How could Courfeyrac have known that, if he couldn’t even see Grantaire at all? Enjolras lets out a huff of surprise. How could he have been so blind? Of course, that’s why his friends have been acting strange lately. That’s why they never talk to Grantaire. That’s why sometimes, when they think he’s asleep, he hears them talk about “imaginary friends”. Because they think he has one.

 

“They can’t see you,” Enjolras blurts.

 

Grantaire frowns in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

 

“My friends,” Enjolras explains. “They can’t see you. Why? They think I’m nuts, right? That you aren’t real, and I made you up, and-“

 

“Quite possibly,” Grantaire interjects. “But I’ve got more important things to do than listen to your friends’ conversations. And, to answer your question, I don’t care much for other humans. You’re the only one I’m interested in, Enjolras. Why would they need to see me?”

 

“So that they don’t think I’ve gone insane, that’s why!” Enjolras lets out a frustrated sigh and runs his hands through his hair. “Listen, I get what you’re saying and all that crap, but I just… I’m not crazy. I’m not delusional. You’re real. And I want them to know. Maybe they can help us, with the war. You know, the one you’re not telling me anything about.”

 

“I’ll tell you when it becomes necessary,” Grantaire says. “As I will do with the answer to your previous question.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything for a moment. Of course Grantaire wasn’t going to tell him. Typical immortal being behaviour, deciding to save crucial information until the last second. When’s he going to learn about this war, anyways? When he’s bleeding out on a battlefield he unknowingly walked onto? He hopes it doesn’t turn out that way, but Grantaire’s too unpredictable.

 

“Don’t worry, Enjolras. It won’t be long. I promise I’ll tell you soon, but right now, all that matters is that you _do_ get released, and they don’t keep you here longer than needed. Even if you’re safer in the hospital.”

 

Enjolras looks up, his eyes meeting Grantaire’s. “Why am I safer in here?”

 

Grantaire doesn’t answer that question, either. He changes the subject, and starts talking to Enjolras about the time he wiped out an entire species. Enjolras, ever loyal, listens intently to the story. Even though they haven’t known each other very long, he trusts Grantaire’s going to keep his promise. He’s okay with waiting for those answers. For now, stories will suffice.

 

~

 

_A single rain drop. That’s all it takes, really. One moment, Enjolras is in his house, getting yelled at by his father, and the next he’s standing in the same eerie forest he’s visited for days on end. He still doesn’t know where, exactly, he is. There are no signs anywhere._

_So he simply calls this place the Forest._

_But today, there’s something different. As Enjolras peers out over the clearing, expecting the blue-eyed hooded figure to appear like always, he spots a flickering light from between the trees. That’s odd. He’s never seen that before._

_He doesn’t know what to do, so he follows the light. That can’t be bad, right? Twigs and dry leaves crunch underfoot, and Enjolras feels sharp stabs as he makes his way through tangled bushes. There is no path in the Forest. He wishes there was._

_It feels like a millennia has passed when Enjolras finally steps into an open clearing, covered in scratches and bruises. It looks exactly like the one he always finds himself in, except this time, there’s a mysterious cabin blocking the exit. There’s light coming from the windows, spilling out in rays of warm gold. Dark smoke curls up from the chimney._

_So there’s shelter in these woods. Enjolras frowns. But why would he need shelter? What would he need to hide from? Shrugging it off, Enjolras approaches the cabin. He wonders if anyone’s inside. Maybe they can help him find a way out._

_The door is unlocked. It creaks open. Through the small crack between the door and the wall, Enjolras can see a roaring fireplace, a wooden table, and an unlit gas stove. There’s a lantern on the table, the flame inside flickering gently. Enjolras quietly steps inside. A sudden gust of cold wind slams the door shut. Startled, Enjolras turns to look at it._

_When he looks back at the cabin, he sees a rocking chair by the fireplace. Except, it wasn’t there before._

_There’s someone on the rocking chair, causing it to slowly rock back and forth. From this angle, Enjolras can’t tell who it is, and he doesn’t think he wants to. Something about this cabin – about the rocking chair by the fireplace – doesn’t feel right. He shivers, and turns to go back out._

_The figure suddenly appears before him. Screeching, it lifts its bony fingers up to its hood, and-_

Enjolras sits up in a panic, breathing heavily. His whole body is shaking, his hands glisten with sweat. Something about that nightmare felt too real. He’s still gasping for air when he adjusts his vision to the darkness, taking in the familiarity of his hospital room. His heart is beating rapidly. Enjolras feels like he’s going to explode.

 

When his shaking’s subsided, Enjolras reaches over and turns on the small lamp by his bed. In the dim lighting, he can see Grantaire on the other bed. Those blue eyes were unmistakable. Enjolras would recognize them anywhere.

 

“Bad dream?” Grantaire asks, barely above a whisper. There’s a hint of something in his voice – concern, maybe. Enjolras doesn’t know.

 

Enjolras nods. He downs the cup of water he was given earlier. “Yeah.”

 

“You’ve been having a lot of those lately,” Grantaire says. He’s frowning. Definitely concerned.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t feel like talking right now – he’s too shaken up, and his throat feels dry. He’s about to stand up and go grab more water, but Grantaire’s cold fingers suddenly wrap around his wrist and yank him back down. Enjolras quickly averts his gaze.

 

“I’ll do it,” Grantaire says. His voice is gentle, soft. Enjolras wasn’t expecting that at all.

 

Before he can object, Grantaire is gone. There’s no trace of him left, except for the musky smell of dirt and forest springs he leaves behind. Without really thinking, Enjolras reaches over and grabs the blanket on the other bed. It smells like Grantaire. It’s rather comforting.

 

Enjolras falls asleep with the blanket tucked against his cheek. He doesn’t have another nightmare.

 

~

 

“Your warding is failing,” Atropos says, sliding a fry into her blood-red mouth.

 

 

Grantaire buries his face in his hands and groans. “I know.”

 

“You’re not going to be able to protect him from them.”

 

“I _know_.” Grantaire steals some of her fries and glances up. Atropos isn’t amused. She never is. “I know, okay? But I’m trying my best. Enjolras mustn’t come into contact with either of them.”

 

Atropos raises an eyebrow. “Either?”

 

“His nightmares have been getting worse,” Grantaire explains, sighing. “He tells me he sees a cabin now, in the Forest. The cabin itself looks… inviting, but there’s always a dark figure in there.”

 

“Bastards.” Atropos shakes her head. “Of course they’d try and get to him through his dreams. It’s the only logical way. The hospital is still warded. They physically can’t get in. But, then again, it is failing-“

 

“I get it, my warding is failing. I’ll make it stronger when Enjolras is released. I promise. For now, though, there isn’t much I can do. He’s leaving in two days, anyways.”

 

Atropos regards him with a cool, collected expression. She never shows any emotion. But maybe that’s just part of her job.

 

“I trust you will have everything sorted by then, Grantaire. And if not,” she pauses. “I can always send someone else to fill your position.”

 

~

 

“Eight,” Eponine says.

 

Combeferre blinks at her from the Musain’s bar. “Eight what?”

 

“Eight days until Enjolras gets back to normal,” Eponine explains. She takes a loud sip from her chocolate milkshake.

 

Joly shakes his head enthusiastically as he bounds over to her booth. Cosette scoots over to make room for him.

 

“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong,” he says. “Eight days isn’t enough time. It always takes people longer to heal.”

 

“Besides, it’s possible he might never get back to normal,” Musichetta adds, nodding to herself.

 

When Les Amis arrived at the Musain, someone had just vomited all over her floor, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. But now that they’re here, and keeping her distracted, she doesn’t seem to mind cleaning it up as much.

 

Combeferre feels his heart drop. He desperately wants Enjolras to get back to normal.

 

“I’m going to go for a year,” Jehan pipes in. They thread another daisy into Bahorel’s beard. “Let’s be optimistic.”

 

“How about we don’t bet on Enjolras’ mental health?” Cosette asks, in that eerily calm voice of hers. Her fingers tap an uneasy rhythm on the edge of the table.

 

Bossuet shakes his head. “But that’s half the fun. We need something to lighten the mood.”

 

Cosette clears her throat. She isn’t messing around anymore. She’s entirely serious. “You can lighten the mood in other ways. All I’m saying is that I don’t think Enjolras would appreciate this. He’d want us to not make this a big deal.”

 

“We’re trying,” Combeferre sighs. “God, we’re all trying so hard. It takes so much effort to pretend like it’s okay that Enjolras is talking to someone who isn’t there-“

 

“I know,” Cosette interjects.

 

“-but it’s just so hard.” Combeferre pauses. Everyone is staring at him now, unblinking. He wonders how Enjolras could deal with thousands of eyes staring at him during protests. He certainly can’t deal with the attention he’s receiving now – but maybe that’s coming from days without sleep, and their current situation. “Cosette, I’m on your side. Trust me. I don’t think we should be betting on Enj either, but you have to understand that making light of the situation is the only way we can cope with it. It’s hard on all of us.”

 

Cosette nods. She gives Combeferre a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I know.”

 

No one says anything. There’s a thick silence hanging in the air, and no one wants to break it. Even the rest of the people at the Musain have gone silent. The silence disappears quickly, though – in a few minutes, everyone’s talking again. Eponine has pulled out a black notebook, and is now writing down everyone’s bets. Courfeyrac sits down next to Combeferre, and places two beers on the bar. Combeferre gratefully accepts one, even though he isn’t usually one for alcohol.

 

“Thanks,” he says, gulping down half the bottle. It’s a good thing today’s Les Amis Friday Sleepover Night, and Musichetta’s driving him and Courfeyrac to her place. He wants to get super wasted right now, and not have to worry about such things.

 

Courfeyrac taps his bottle against Combeferre’s and nods. “No problem.”

 

They’re silent for a moment. Combeferre stares at the bottle’s label. Labels are such fascinating things.

 

“Are you okay?” Courfeyrac asks. His voice is quiet.

 

“I’m swell,” Combeferre replies, a little too loudly. He gulps down the other half of his beer. “Swell. Really, Courf, I’m fine.”

 

Courfeyrac narrows his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

 

“That isn’t the point. It never is.”

 

Courfeyrac is silent for a second. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid tonight, okay?”

 

For this moment, as he’s looking right into Courfeyrac’s hazel eyes and tightly gripping an empty beer bottle, Combeferre feels completely sober. “I promise.”

 

Courfeyrac smiles that brilliant, luminous smile of his, tangles his fingers with Combeferre’s, and orders them another round.

 

-

 

Combeferre didn’t have as much to drink as he wanted to, and he’s really starting to regret that now. It’s four in the morning. And he’s lying on an air mattress on the floor of Musichetta’s living room, a wine-purple blanket draped over him and Courfeyrac.

 

He’s pretty sure everyone else went to sleep hours ago, but he can’t. He’s too busy thinking about Enjolras. At least he has a good view of Paris like this, so maybe it isn’t too bad.

 

Beside him, Courfeyrac stirs, his leg softly bumping Combeferre’s. He reaches his hand out and stretches it across Combeferre’s chest. Which means he’s awake.

 

“Courf,” Combeferre whispers. He tries to move his hands away, but Courfeyrac tangles his fingers in his shirt. “Go back to sleep.”

 

“No,” Courfeyrac mumbles. He pushes his curls out of his eyes and sleepily blinks at Combeferre.

 

“Yes,” Combeferre replies.

 

Instead, Courfeyrac pushes the blanket off and turns so that he’s facing Combeferre, obstructing his view of Paris. Not that Combeferre minds what he’s seeing now. He prefers it, actually. But that thought’s a bit too sappy for such an early hour.

 

“What’s up?” Courfeyrac asks. His hand is still on Combeferre’s chest.

 

Combeferre attempts to shrug, but it doesn’t quite work out. He sighs. “You know, if Enjolras was here, we’d probably be watching something political on TV right now. He’d be yelling and throwing our empty soda cans at the screen, and then Chetta would forcefully lock him in the bathroom like always. And then in the morning, we’d find him sleeping in the bathtub.” Combeferre pauses. “I wish Enjolras was here.”

 

There’s a moment of silence as Courfeyrac brushes his other hand through Combeferre’s hair, in deliberately soft strokes. It’s comforting. Combeferre wants to curl up to him, and wake up in the morning to a practically-dead Enjolras on his tenth cup of coffee. He knows he won’t, though.

 

“Next time,” Courfeyrac whispers. He makes this sound scandalous. “Next time, Enjolras will be here.”

 

~

 

 

“Guess what day it is today,” Grantaire says. He drapes himself all over the empty bed.

 

Enjolras doesn’t even look up. He just continues reading the poetry book Jehan gave him. It’s actually nice. “Happy I Don’t Have to See Grantaire Anymore Day.”

 

“Wrong.” Grantaire’s probably pouting. He does this whenever he wants Enjolras to feel guilty, but it never works. It’s more adorable, honestly. Enjolras will never admit that to anyone. “It’s your last day in this hellhole! Aren’t you excited? At exactly six in the evening, Combeferre will arrive to take you back to your apartment. And you probably won’t have to be here in the near future.”

 

This time, Enjolras looks over. Grantaire’s facing him now. “How do you know I live in an apartment?”

 

“I know things.”

 

Enjolras nods. “And why is this a good thing, exactly? Me getting out of here?”

 

“Well.” Grantaire sits up. “I wouldn’t necessarily call it a good thing, but it isn’t bad. I mean, sure, your warding’s failing, but at least you’ll get to spend more time with your friends.”

 

“Warding?” Enjolras asks.

 

Grantaire shakes his head. “Never mind. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you on the ride home.”  


“You’re not coming with me,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t want to have to play roommates with Death. Not ever.

 

“You have no choice.”

 

Enjolras sighs. Well, just because Grantaire’s going to temporarily live with him doesn’t mean they have to talk. Enjolras doesn’t have to pay any attention to him, technically. They can just co-exist in mutual silence. He likes this idea.  

 

“I don’t really want to leave,” Enjolras mutters.

 

“Why not?” Grantaire asks. His voice is gentle, soft, calming. Enjolras never understands how this is the same man who goes around reaping souls and ending lives.

 

“My friends think I’m insane, Grantaire. At least here, I don’t seem as crazy. I mean, I’m in a hospital. The doctors and nurses are nice. They don’t act weird around me. But my friends – my friends do. It’s like… I don’t know, it’s like I’m not me. They don’t know what to do with themselves whenever I’m around them.”

 

“But that’s not your fault,” Grantaire says. “You know they’ll be able to see me eventually, right? They won’t think you’re crazy forever. Just until you know everything you need to.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything else. He’s not exactly in the mood to argue with Grantaire over something stupid like this. He’d rather just get it over with, honestly. Maybe Grantaire doesn’t even know why he should leave… maybe he’s just trying to be nice.

 

Enjolras sighs. He doesn’t want to think about this right now.

 

“I’ll give you some time,” Grantaire says. Quietly. Finally. The air still feels heavy with silence.

 

Enjolras glances up. “You make it sound like we don’t have time.”

 

“There’s always time for you.”

 

Enjolras opens his mouth to ask what, exactly, that means, but Grantaire’s already gone. He slumps back against the bed and sighs again, for what feels like his hundredth time today. Grantaire doesn’t make much sense. Enjolras stops trying to figure him out.

 

-

 

Enjolras doesn’t see Grantaire for the rest of the day, even when an overly-excited Combeferre comes to bring him home. He feels slightly disappointed. And there’s something else he feels, like something’s not quite right, or…

 

No.

 

Enjolras can’t be missing Death.

 

That’s absurd. Absolutely insane. Impossible. How could he, a living, breathing human being, possibly miss the person whose sole job is to take that life away from him? It doesn’t make any sense.

 

But, then again, nothing in Enjolras’ life makes sense now. He sighs.

 

Enjolras adds ‘missing Grantaire’ to his list of things not to think about.

 

~

 

There is a tremor when he leaves. They can feel it. The warding Death had put up is no longer useful – it does not reach the boy. The prophesized one. The chosen one.

 

They can reach him now, and they do not have to enter his dreams. There are faster, easier ways to communicate now. Maybe he’ll listen.

 

There is a tremor far above the ground, and far below. They can only hope Death is too preoccupied to notice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has book recommendations, I'll take them! (either leave a comment here, or let me know on tumblr) :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I think I'm getting better at this updating thing! I hope everything R says makes sense :) Thanks to everyone who's still reading this, it means so much to me! I hope you enjoy!

Enjolras doesn’t talk.

 

Well, that’s not exactly true. He _does_ talk. To “Grantaire”.

 

Combeferre’s tried getting him to say something, _anything_ , for four days, and he still hasn’t budged. He hasn’t even said “hello” to anyone, let alone acknowledged their presence. It’s like they’re not even there.

 

_“Give him time,” the doctor said, when Combeferre called him last night._

_“I don’t have time,” Combeferre replied._

_He looked over at Enjolras, sitting at the coffee table and talking to a figment of his imagination. He felt that typical pit of sadness in his stomach, and looked away._

_“Then make time.” The doctor sighed. “I know it’s hard. But this is also typical in someone with Enjolras’ case-“_

_“You mean, an abuse victim,” Combeferre interrupted._

_There was a long pause. “I’m afraid so. If he’s starting to worry you – if this gets worse, or he stops eating or drinking or sleeping, then call me again. But there isn’t anything I can do about this, Combeferre. I’m terribly sorry.”_

_He hung up before Combeferre could say anything else. And Enjolras hadn’t even turned to acknowledge the conversation – he was still talking to nobody. Combeferre sighed. He didn’t sleep very well._

“I thought you’d appreciate this.”

 

Combeferre turns. Eponine slams his front door behind her, carelessly balancing a cardboard coffee-cup holder on the palm of her hand. She’s incredibly balanced, he’ll give her that. But she isn’t paying enough attention.

 

“Careful,” Combeferre says. He takes the tray out of her hands as she attempts to slip off her coat. “Enjolras will kill me if this gets on the carpet.”

 

Eponine looks over at Enjolras’ closed bedroom door, where he’s been holed up for the past four hours. She frowns.

 

“I don’t think he’d care all that much,” she says. Then she gestures at the tray. “That’s for you, and your wife.”

 

Combeferre takes one of the cups. He can tell it’s from the Musain, and it’s delicious as ever, even though he wouldn’t usually trust Eponine with his drinks. “Thanks. I’ll let Courf know.”

 

Eponine nods, sipping coffee from her own cup. It smells strongly like whiskey, but Combeferre isn’t about to judge. He’s had more alcohol these past few weeks than in the past few years, too.

 

“Wait,” Combeferre says. He squints at Eponine. “How did you get in?”

 

“I picked the lock,” Eponine replies, shrugging. She’s probably done this countless times.

 

Combeferre doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t care enough about his locks getting picked right now. He’s too busy worrying about Enjolras. Eponine doesn’t try and start a conversation, either. He thinks she just came to bring coffee, and maybe provide some company.

 

When Courfeyrac stumbles into the living room, late in the morning, his eyes barely open, Eponine hands him fresh coffee and a small, comforting smile. She’s good at this stuff – comforting people, offering a shoulder to cry on. It’s never ceased to amaze Combeferre, considering her rough childhood.

 

None of them talk, really. They’re content with silently sharing each other’s company, and occasionally listening in on Enjolras’ one-sided conversations. It almost breaks Combeferre’s heart.

 

But then he realizes, as he sips his coffee, that he’s gotten used to it.

 

~

 

“What’s up with the sudden cooperation?” Enjolras asks, crossing his arms.

 

He feels rather uncomfortable as Grantaire observes his room, like he’s standing naked in a full stadium. Whenever Grantaire looks at him now, it feels like he’s burning through his core and into his soul. Sometimes, it’s easier just to look away.

 

Grantaire’s ghosting his fingers over his over-crowded bookshelf now, the barest hint of a smile gracing his lips. He’s utterly absorbed in them, in every little object in the apartment. It’s like he’s fascinated by humans, which doesn’t seem to make sense. What interest could he have in beings he kills?

 

_No. That’s unfair. He doesn’t_ kill _them. Humans kill themselves. We kill each other – Grantaire just takes our souls to the other side. He cleans up our messes, that’s all._

“I’m not cooperating,” Grantaire replies. Of course he isn’t. And _of course_ he had to wait to say that after Enjolras already spoke. “This is for my benefit.”

 

“And mine!” Enjolras blurts.

 

Grantaire looks over at him, head tilted. “Is it?”

 

“If you _are_ actually going to explain everything, then yes. I deserve to know what the hell’s going on. You owe it to me.”

 

“I don’t owe you anything,” Grantaire says. “I saved you, remember? It’s quite the contrary.”

 

Enjolras lets out a frustrated breath. He just really, really wants to know everything. He wants to know about the mysterious war that’s going on. About the beings trying to get into his dreams – or so Grantaire tells him. About the demons. About the Fates. About the tablets.

 

About his role in all of this.

 

He isn’t trying to befriend Grantaire, he’s just trying to know what he deserves to know. And there’s no point arguing over it, anyways. That’s pointless.

 

Grantaire leaves the bookshelf and sits down on the edge of Enjolras’ bed. They aren’t that far apart. Enjolras can feel him there, that life-draining, cold presence of his. But it isn’t uncomfortable. It’s addicting, comforting. Enjolras almost wishes it wasn’t.

 

“I don’t know where to start,” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras glances up at him. “Where the story begins.”

 

“I didn’t have much of a role, at first.” Grantaire pauses, like he’s contemplating what to say next. He probably is. “I mean, Atropos created me out of practically nothing. She needed an assistant, or something like that. Another entity who would help her complete the natural order, end the cycle of life.”

 

“And that’s where you come in,” Enjolras says.

 

Grantaire nods. “So I wasn’t that powerful. I didn’t even have a scythe back then. I had nothing, really. All I had was my task, and that was enough. We went on for millennia that way, coexisting with mortal beings. It was nice.

 

“But then… then Lucifer fell. And demons were created. We thought they wouldn’t be much of a problem – by then, I had enough power to kill one in a second – but they were. Are. They’re still a problem. You see, they discovered our secret. They found out we were the ones responsible for deaths, and life, and maintaining the natural order. They wanted to wield the power I possessed.”

 

“And?” Enjolras prompts. He doesn’t see how any of this is relevant.

 

“And,” Grantaire continues. “By doing so, they’d end me. My power would transfer to them. And, I don’t know, maybe that would mean they’d be immortal, or maybe that power would go to mankind, and no one would die anymore. But anyways, we couldn’t let them have it. It was too much of a risk, and it would eventually – if not instantly – destroy everything.

 

“So Atropos created the Scrolls of Death. I don’t even know much about them, except that they hold the information the demons are after: how to rid the world of death. Of me. But she couldn’t just lock them away, because the demons could find it, if they put enough effort in. And that’s where you come in, Enjolras. You were chosen by the Fates to be the one who would ultimately find and destroy the Scrolls, and by doing so, end the long war we’ve been engaged in.”

 

“Okay,” Enjolras says. His head is swimming with all this new information, and most of it doesn’t even sound real. Demons? Lucifer? It just doesn’t sound believable. “But who’s the war against? Who are you fighting?”

 

“The demons, obviously.” Grantaire pauses again. Enjolras hates when he does this. “And the angels.”

 

“What?” Enjolras splutters. _Angels?_ There’s angels now, too? “There’s fucking angels?”

 

Grantaire shrugs. “I personally don’t like them, but what does that matter.”

 

“Why are they part of this? Why haven’t you told me this before?”

 

“I told you I’m the Angel of Death, right?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras nods, still trying to process everything. Angels. That sounds great. “Technically, depends who you ask, I was the first angel. I’ve got the wings and all that unnecessary crap. But I’m not really “one of them”, you know? They’re all up there in Heaven, and I’m down here, reaping souls.

 

“But, anyways, that’s not the point. The angels decided a long time ago that this was their war, too. It’s not. But they won’t listen. They think that because this concerns souls and immortality and the ultimate fate of the world, they need to be involved.”

 

“So, they want the Scrolls too?” Enjolras frowns. This is all getting really confusing.

 

“Not exactly,” Grantaire says. “They want you. You’re the only one who has the ability to find, decipher, and break the Scrolls. They’d call you a weapon. I call you an important advantage. See, if the angels get their hands on you, then they can get the Scrolls. And who knows what they’ll do with them. Atropos thinks they’ll just break the Scrolls, get rid of them, but I think it’s more complicated. Politics are always more complicated than they need to be. The angels will probably keep the Scrolls, as leverage against me and the demons.”

 

“They don’t like you?”

 

Grantaire laughs. “I don’t think even _Atropos_ likes me, Enj. Of course they don’t. I’m obviously superior, and they know that.”

 

“So, the warding…. That was to keep the demons and the angels away, right?” Enjolras nods to himself. Everything’s starting to click.

 

“Yes. And your dream… the cabin was the angels trying to contact you. And the figure you saw in the cabin was a demon. Probably. Or just one of their hellish messengers. But you don’t need to be worried about them taking you away, I put new wards up. Stronger wards.”

 

Enjolras puts his hands up. “Wait, let me get this straight – demons wanted your powers, so Atropos made Scrolls that could kill you. I’m the only one who can do anything with those Scrolls. Angels are involved, and they want me, but not necessarily the Scrolls. The demons probably want me, too-“

 

“Most likely,” Grantaire agrees.

 

“And you had to wait to tell me all of this until now? How does that make any sense?”

 

Grantaire leans back and shrugs. “Nothing in this world makes sense, Enjolras, if you look close enough. It isn’t supposed to make sense. I had to wait until you were well-adjusted-“

 

“I wouldn’t call my situation “well-adjusted”,” Enjolras mutters.

 

Grantaire just sighs. He doesn’t say anything else. So that’s the story, then. The grand explanation for everything that’s going on. The reason why Enjolras was saved, and why his friends think he’s gone delusional. It’s just some stupid, celestial, immortal-being war he doesn’t want to partake in.

 

“Your war sounds stupid,” Enjolras says finally.

 

Grantaire smiles at him. “I’m glad we agree on something.”

 

~

 

It comes as a surprise. The doctor – Combeferre _swears_ he said his name once – thought it would take longer, much longer. Because apparently, Enjolras is now an abuse victim, even though he’s never been abused in his entire life.

 

Well.

 

Now that Combeferre thinks about it, that’s not exactly true. Enjolras _has_ been abused. Verbally. By his father. He’s pretty sure Enjolras’ father has even physically hurt him once, but Enjolras would always get himself into fights, so he has no way of knowing. (He does know, however, that Enjolras’ mother once got slapped for defending her son. It only happened once. Everyone knows about it. No one talks about it.)

 

So it comes as an incredibly unexpected surprise.

 

Combeferre’s drinking his regular morning cup of coffee, checking _Le Parisian_ like he does every day, when Enjolras stumbles out of his room and takes a seat by the breakfast table. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all. Which is entirely possible.

 

“Can I have some coffee?” Enjolras asks. His voice is quiet and hoarse.

 

Combeferre almost chokes on his own. He stares at Enjolras in shock. So now he’s decided to talk to them again? Really?

 

But Combeferre can’t stay mad at Enjolras. It’s just too difficult.

 

“Sure,” he says. He’s going to ask questions later, find out why Enjolras hasn’t talked to him until now.

 

Combeferre gets up to make him some coffee and ignores the feeling that maybe, _just maybe_ , they’re not entirely alone.

 

~

 

Enjolras is sitting at the Musain, at the very back, so no one can question him about the fact that he’s talking to someone they can’t see. He got the memo on the street, when he was having a very heated argument with Grantaire over the right way to eat eggs. (Scrambled, damn it. Why does Grantaire eat, anyways? He doesn’t need to.)

 

“You have a nice laptop,” Grantaire comments. He’s sitting across from Enjolras. Before, he’d tried getting his attention by repeatedly poking his shoulder, but it didn’t work.

 

Enjolras doesn’t look up. “Thanks.”

 

“It’d be a shame if something happened to it.”

 

“Oh,” Enjolras says, feigning sadness. He looks up and pouts, just because he knows Grantaire hates it. Displays of emotion seem to make him uncomfortable. “I was just going to throw it at you.”

 

“Thank you, that’s very kind. No one ever wants to throw corporeal objects at me.” Grantaire pauses. “It would look rather embarrassing on your half, though. It’d look like you’re just smashing your laptop through thin air.”

 

Enjolras shrugs and returns to his laptop. “I’d call it a magic trick. Maybe then I could make money out of hurting you.”

 

There’s a lingering silence, and Enjolras wonders if maybe Grantaire left. Maybe he overstepped his boundaries. Is he not allowed to joke about hurting Death? It seemed like a good joke, anyways. But before Enjolras can do anything, he feels a hand on his shoulder.

 

Cold.

 

Powerful.

 

Comforting.

 

Grantaire’s standing beside him, grinning at the laptop screen. So he hasn’t left. Enjolras lets out a quiet breath of relief, which he isn’t going to address ever. He’s not _relieved_. He just doesn’t want Grantaire to be mad at him, because he never knows what to do with that.

 

“That’s a lovely story you’re writing,” Grantaire says. He’s still smiling to himself. “Although – and don’t feel the need to listen to me, I’m no writer – I think it would be more captivating if you mentioned other characters. Don’t get me wrong, I love the perspective, and the plot is absolutely amazing-“

 

“It’s an essay,” Enjolras corrects flatly. He jabs a finger at his screen. “About the state of the Roman economy in the first half of the second century.”

 

Grantaire blinks at him. “That makes more sense. It’s still nice.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

Enjolras isn’t in a friendly mood. At all. And apparently, Grantaire has a hard time understanding that. It’s not like he _wants_ to write this essay. He doesn’t. But his professors aren’t cutting him any slack now that he’s attending classes again, even if he missed a few weeks’ worth of stuff. Which, in university terms, is a lot.

 

So now he has to spend his free time writing essays and highlighting more chunks of his textbooks to catch up, and hopefully maintain his excellent GPA. Even if he’d rather listen to more of Grantaire’s stories, about the war or the world.

 

“What’s gotten into you?” Grantaire asks, frowning. He returns to his seat and leans across the table.

 

Enjolras shrugs, still furiously typing. “I got a life.”

 

“Oh.” Grantaire doesn’t say anything for a while. He nods to himself.

 

They sit in silence for a moment. Enjolras tries to ignore the looks Grantaire keeps sending his way, but all this desperation for attention is starting to get on his nerves. He looks over his laptop and stops typing.

 

“What?” He asks.

 

Grantaire pulls back defensively and crosses his arms. “Nothing. It’s just… I barely see you all day, and then when I do, and we get the chance to discuss the war, you’re too busy doing other things. It’s like you can’t even spare a few minutes for me.”

 

“Do you miss me?” Enjolras laughs, shaking his head. “Is that it?”

 

Grantaire sighs. “No, I don’t miss you-“

 

“Then stop being so clingy.” Enjolras pauses. Grantaire’s expression is blank. He can’t tell if he’s overstepped a boundary. “Look, I… I’d like to talk about the war, okay? But this is something I have to do. It’s important to me.”

 

“Okay. Fine. Do your thing. But don’t come complaining to me when you don’t know anything.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and continues typing. He doesn’t have the time for this right now – well, he never has the time for pointless arguments. And Grantaire’s probably going to stay mad at him until he leaves a peace offering, but at least he’ll be able to finish this on time, without any distractions.

 

“Hey, are you busy?”

 

Enjolras glances up, caught off-guard, and finds Jehan standing by his table. There’s a bouquet of flowers in their hands, and at least a dozen daisies braided into their hair. It looks nice.

 

“Um, sort of.” Enjolras frowns. “Why?”

 

“Cosette wants us all to go to Marseilles for the weekend, and she told me to ask you. Ferre says you’re busy, but-“

 

Enjolras smiles. “Sure, I’ll go with you guys. I can always work on my essay there, if I have too.”

 

Jehan lights up like a beam of light. “Oh, great! I’ll let everyone know. We’re planning on leaving tomorrow morning, but Ferre will tell you everything else. We’re staying at a hotel, by the way. His sister's using their family estate. This is going to be fabulous!”

 

Without letting Enjolras say anything else, Jehan squeals excitedly and bounces off. Musichetta waves at them before they leave. Enjolras isn’t exactly sure why he said yes. He has loads of work to do. But maybe, just maybe, if he’s constantly with his friends, Grantaire won’t bother him as much. Maybe he won’t even have to deal with Grantaire, period.

 

No talks about the war.

 

No visits from Death.

 

Just a nice, relaxing vacation by the beach.

 

Enjolras can do that. He’d like that.

 

“Am I invited?” Grantaire asks.

 

And there goes Enjolras’ good mood, spoiled once again by a soul-reaping immortal being.

 

“Did you hear Jehan invite you?” Enjolras asks.

 

Grantaire shakes his head. “No.”

 

“There’s your answer.”

 

“You can invite me, too.” There’s a hopeful look in Grantaire’s eyes, but maybe Enjolras is just imagining it.

 

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “I don’t want to.”

 

“Oh, whatever, I’m coming anyways. I can’t miss some quality time with you and your wonderfully strange friends.”

 

Enjolras sighs. So maybe this vacation won’t be as nice as he thought. Oh well. He’ll try and make the most of it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, the next chapter's going to take place in Marseilles. Vacation time! 
> 
> ... thoughts on the q & a? Or maybe I'll just start an ask blog....


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me! Two chapters in two days! Thank you to everyone who continues to read this fic, your support means a lot. <3
> 
> This chapter's dedicated to my sister, who's FINALLY reading this :)
> 
> P.S. If I don't make it very clear, then they have a long weekend. It's why they're leaving on Friday.

Enjolras wakes up at six in the morning on a Friday, and the very first thing he sees is Grantaire’s face. He’s completely unprepared, so he throws a horribly-aimed pillow at him.

 

“Geez,” Enjolras groans, rolling over. He prefers the blinding view from his window. “Stop doing that.”

 

“Doing what?” Grantaire asks. Without an invitation, he lays down beside Enjolras on the bed. He tends to do this. Enjolras doesn’t know why.

 

“ _That._ ” Enjolras sighs and sits up.

 

He hates this little bit they do every morning – Grantaire stares at Enjolras until he wakes up, then when he isn’t being paid attention to, he proceeds to take advantage of Enjolras’ bed. It’s not fun.

 

Grantaire scrunches his nose up. It’s adorable. Enjolras will never admit that. “I thought we were friends, Enj.”

 

Enjolras shakes his head as he gets up. Now’s the part where he has to spend an hour looking for clean clothes. Grantaire thinks he’s funny when he messes everything up in the middle of the night, but he’s actually not.

 

“Nope. That was never part of our agreement.”

 

“Our what now?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

 

Enjolras glances over at him as he sniffs a shirt. He shrugs. It’s decent enough. “Our agreement. I help you with your stupid war, and you leave me alone.”

 

“I never said I’d leave you alone.”

 

“Well, you can start now,” Enjolras says. Seriously. He has no time for this.

 

Grantaire throws a pillow at him. “God, no. Why would I want to leave you alone? That won’t benefit either of us. And how would we discuss the war? Telepathy? Sorry, but I don’t actually want to know what you’re-“

 

“Grantaire.” Enjolras sighs. He tries giving him one of those I’ve Had Enough of You faces, but it’s impossible when Grantaire has now refocused his attention on a feather poking out of a pillow. He’s staring at it in awe, like he’s never seen one before. He tends to get fascinated a lot. “I have to be ready in less than an hour. I need to finish packing. Bahorel’s going to be here to pick us up soon.”

 

Grantaire snaps out of his trance and blinks. “Okay, okay, I won’t bother you.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Enjolras continues finding a decently clean outfit for the day (not that it really matters – they’ll all smell gross by the time they get to Marseilles), but the silence doesn’t even last for ten minutes before Grantaire speaks up again.

 

“Humans are weird. You guys stick parts of dead birds in your pillows.” Grantaire frowns at the pillow he’s holding. “How do you sleep at night?”

 

“With pills,” Enjolras deadpans.

 

Grantaire’s eyes go wide. Such a brilliant blue. It’s too bright. Enjolras avoids looking at him. “You’re serious?”

 

“Deadly.” Enjolras grabs a stack of books from his to-read list and dumps them on his bed, along with everything else that needs to be packed. “I take melatonin, sometimes.”

 

“I didn’t think you were the bad boy type.” Grantaire grins. He’s merciless. “Look at you, taking drugs.”

 

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “It’s not a drug. Ferre makes me take it.”

 

“Which makes your friend a drug dealer.” Grantaire’s smiling even more now. He probably thinks this is amusing. “The things you don’t tell me.”

 

“Can you leave already?” Enjolras sighs.

 

“I’ll see you at Marseilles.”

 

Grantaire disappears. Enjolras manages to get his things packed with just enough time to chug a pot of coffee, and then he climbs into Bahorel’s monstrous van with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. He wonders what Grantaire’s up to now.

 

~

 

“You’re going on a vacation?”

 

Grantaire chokes on his drink. Whiskey. It doesn’t affect him, but he wishes it did. “Don’t take this the wrong way, like you usually do.”

 

“Like I usually do?” Atropos raises an eyebrow. The light dances on her dark skin like a wild fire. Untamed. Immortal. “Care to elaborate?”

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Grantaire groans. He buries his face in his arms and sighs. Why does she have to be so difficult? “I just – _yes_ , I’m taking a vacation, but it’s with Enjolras. Your top priority.”

 

“And why is he taking a vacation in the first place?”

 

Atropos, destroying everything Grantaire says with straightforward logic since the beginning of time. He hates her sometimes.

 

“Because he wouldn’t listen to me.” Grantaire’s voice is muffled. Atropos always make him feel like a child, and in a way, he still is to her. She was practically ancient by the time he came around.

 

Still sporting an unimpressed expression, Atropos sips her blood-red wine and sighs. “Why won’t he listen to you?”

 

“Because he doesn’t like me.” Grantaire signals the bartender for another glass. He’s going to need it.

 

“Should I call someone else in?”

 

Grantaire sits up and stares at her. He can be intimidating, too. And he knows it’s working, because Atropos looks away. She says it’s just because “she hates how his eyes glow when he’s mad”. Sure, Atropos.

 

“I can handle the situation,” Grantaire says. It comes out more like a growl. “He’s my charge, and this is my war. No one else needs to get involved.”

 

Atropos rolls her eyes. “Overprotective much.”

 

Grantaire fists his hand in her dress and yanks her forward. There’s uncertainty swimming in her violet eyes.

 

“I’m not being overprotective,” he hisses. “I’m doing my job.”

 

Atropos’s eyes flicker from his own to something over his shoulder. She’s biting her lip now, and it’s not out of fear. Something’s caught her attention. Grantaire rolls his eyes and releases her. She looks completely unfazed.

 

“What is it?” Grantaire asks.

 

All the hostility and tension between them is gone. It’s like their argument never happened. And that isn’t necessarily a bad thing, considering that being mad at Atropos is never a good thing. Most people who do get mad at her don’t live until the next morning.

 

“Clotho.”

 

Grantaire follows Atropos’ steady gaze. Walking briskly towards them is, indeed, Clotho, in all her unpredictable glory. Her jacket is a bright, neon green – it matches her claw-like nails. Her lips glow pale pink. She’s always liked to stand out, make an entrance.

 

“Hi,” Grantaire says, as she approaches the bar.

 

Clotho barely acknowledges his presence, which must mean she’s here on official business. Or something incredibly important happened. She never ignores Grantaire.

 

“What is it?” Atropos asks.

 

Clotho grabs the seat next to Grantaire and leans forward, so she can see Atropos. There’s waves of worry in her eyes, and she’s frowning. It’s so disconcerting to see the Fate of Life in such a state.

 

“The angels,” Clotho says. Her voice sounds like silk, even when she’s worried. “I overheard that they’re planning on descending on Paris soon. They have found the One.”

 

Atropos turns to Grantaire. “When are you going on vacation?”

 

Grantaire sighs. “They should be on their way now.”

 

Clotho and Atropos exchange a look, and without further explanation, Clotho nods. She seems less anxious now, not that Grantaire knows why. The angels could just as easily go to Marseilles. Enjolras won’t be any safer there.

 

“Okay.” Atropos nods. “That’s okay. You’ll be there, too, right? To guard him? If you’re there, and you put up correct wards, then he will be safe on vacation. We can hold off the angels for a while.”

 

Grantaire desperately wants to object. He doesn’t want Clotho and Atropos to get involved in this – it isn’t their fight. They shouldn’t be the ones holding off angels while he suntans in Marseilles. But he knows arguing won’t get them anywhere, and Atropos does have a point. If the angels are already descending on Paris, Enjolras will need all the protection he can get.

 

“Okay,” Grantaire says.

 

He doesn’t quite believe himself.

 

~

 

The silence is strange. Well, it isn’t exactly silent – Courfeyrac and Bahorel have been singing along to Beyoncé for the past twenty minutes, while Feuilly and Combeferre try to distract themselves with maps of Marseilles. Jehan has their headphones in, and they’re writing poetry about forest animals in their pink notebook. They’re probably listening to death metal.

 

There’s enough noise in the van, especially whenever Musichetta calls from her own car, for updates, but Enjolras can’t help but feel estranged. Distant. Maybe he’s just too caught up in his own thoughts. But it’s just so weird without Grantaire there beside him. Enjolras looks out at the forests and the highway, and he keeps expecting to hear stories about them. He brought books with him, to stay occupied during the ride, but Grantaire’s a better narrator. The best. His stories are the only ones Enjolras wants to hear right now.

 

“You okay?”

 

Enjolras blinks, startled. Jehan has taken off their rhinestone-studded headphones and is now giving him a concerned look.

 

“Fine,” Enjolras says. His voice is hoarse. He hasn’t really talked to anyone since they got in the van.

 

Jehan frowns. “You sure? I don’t think you are.”

 

“And what’s giving that away?” Enjolras can’t help himself. He’s smiling. Jehan has that ability, that wondrous ability, to make anyone smile no matter the situation.

 

Jehan taps their temple and nods sagely. “My intuition.”

 

The radio turns off. Beyoncé isn’t blasting through the car speakers anymore. Bahorel glances at Enjolras through the mirror.

 

“What’s going on?” He asks. “Are we having a deep conversation?”

 

Courfeyrac pouts. “Aww, not now! We haven’t even finished _Dangerously in Love_.”

 

“Enjolras is just quiet, that’s all,” Jehan says.

 

“I’m thinking,” Enjolras mutters. “Am I not allowed to do that?”

 

There’s a moment of awkward silence. Even Feuilly and Combeferre look up from one of their maps. Sighing, Enjolras turns back to the window and watches the trees go by. Eventually, Bahorel turns Beyoncé on again. The van isn’t silent anymore.

 

“Well,” Jehan says. They pat Enjolras’ hand. “If you ever need to talk, Enj, we’re here. I’m here.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything. He just nods. _The only person I want to talk to is Grantaire._

 

-

 

They just stopped by a gas station, and the only reason Enjolras talked was because he had to go to the bathroom really badly, and Bahorel was taking forever to park. Plus, he had to ask Combeferre to pay for his snacks, because he didn’t bring any money. Which was really dumb, because he knows Grantaire’s going to relentlessly bother him for a souvenir.

 

Feuilly and Combeferre have put away their maps, and are now intensely discussing the history of Marseilles, and local attractions. Jehan’s half-listening to their conversation, occasionally mentioning something about folklore. Bahorel and Courfeyrac are on _Lemonade_ now.

 

And Enjolras, for the most part, is being left alone. He’s content with staring out the window, watching the landscape. He can only imagine all of Grantaire’s stories about it. He’s looking out at yet more trees, when he catches a figure out of the corner of his eye.

 

Whoever it is, they’re wearing a dark, hooded cloak, and their face is concealed –

 

Enjolras’ hands turn a ghastly white as he grips the car. No. _No._ It can’t be. Those are just dreams, the figure can’t… it can’t be real. Grantaire would’ve told him if it was-

 

Grantaire.

 

“Stop the car!” Enjolras says. It comes out as more of a yell.

 

Bahorel pulls the car up by the side of the highway, an alarmed expression on his face. “What the hell? Why?”

 

“Just.” Enjolras takes his seatbelt off and pushes the door open. He needs to get to that figure. “Just do it. Please.”

 

Combeferre’s frowning at him now. “Enjolras. What the-“

 

Enjolras scrambles out of the car and runs off before Combeferre can finish his sentence. The car door’s still open. He frantically runs down the side of the highway until he’s completely out of breath (which doesn’t take too long – he’s still not entirely healed from the accident, and he isn’t even supposed to be running), but there’s no sign of the figure. They’re completely gone.

 

Enjolras stops and regains his breath. He scans his surroundings. _Where did they go?_

He’s about to dash off into the forest, where the figure might’ve gone, when he feels a hand gripping his arm. He spins around to face Combeferre, who doesn’t look pleased with him.

 

“What the fuck, Enjolras?” Combeferre hisses. He only swears when he’s really mad.

 

“You won’t get it,” Enjolras mumbles.

 

Combeferre rolls his eyes. “Maybe I will. You can’t know that. Stop assuming-“

 

“Ferre.” Enjolras sighs. He just wants to get to Marseilles and not have to deal with anyone anymore. He’s so tired of it. “Please. You won’t get it. I know that. There’s no point arguing over it.”

 

“But what is it you think I won’t get?” Combeferre’s voice is gentler now. He’s still pissed, obviously, but now he just seems… tired. Like he’s done with all of this. So is Enjolras. His grip on Enjolras’ arm relaxes. “Talk to me, Enj.”

 

“It’s…. it’s nothing. I just thought… Grantaire. That’s all.”

 

Combeferre looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He lets go of Enjolras’ arm, and the two of them silently walk back to the van. No one asks them about what happened. They don’t ask why Enjolras ran out onto the side of a major highway.

 

But Combeferre keeps sending him these strange looks, and maybe it’d be better if he said something. Enjolras continues looking out the window.

 

-

 

“So.” Musichetta slides in next to Feuilly in the booth. She sticks a wad of napkins on the table and takes a long sip from her protein-packed vegetable smoothie. “We heard you randomly, out-of-the-blue, decided to stop the van and run down the highway. Care to explain?”

 

The sun is just beginning to set, and they’ve all gathered at a diner in some small town to grab a bite, and discuss what Enjolras did. Not that he’s really in the mood to talk about it, but Combeferre told him he had no choice. As if he ever does.

 

“No,” Enjolras says.

 

Combeferre clears his throat. “You owe it to us to at least explain what went through your head. What did you think you were doing? In what world is running onto the highway-“

 

“Ferre, that’s enough.” Cosette glares at him sternly.

 

Combeferre sighs. “Listen, Enj. I’m not trying to put you on the spot here-“

 

“Sure, Ferre. Whatever you say,” Enjolras interrupts.

 

“-but we really need to talk about this. I mean… okay, fine, don’t tell us what the hell that was back there, but at least talk to us about this whole….”

 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks. He knows Combeferre’s just trying to politely ask him to explain why he’s talking to an imaginary friend all the time. _He knows._

 

There’s an awkward pause. Eponine looks uncomfortable, but she usually does whenever they talk about something serious.

 

“Yeah, about that.” Combeferre shakes his head. “Enj, I know you’re going through a lot of stuff. Getting shot can’t be easy, but you can’t…. you can’t hide forever, okay?”

 

“You think I’m hiding?” Enjolras asks.

 

“Honey,” Musichetta says. She reaches across the table and takes Enjolras’ hands in hers. “We just want to keep you safe. And make sure that you’re all right, at least as much as you can be. If talking to this “Grantaire” is helping you, then keep doing that. We’re not asking you to stop.”

 

Enjolras shrugs. “You guys don’t get it.”

 

Musichetta sighs. Les Amis stop trying to talk to him after that. It’s well past dusk by the time they head out, and Enjolras is grateful he gets the dark as an excuse to avoid conversation. He can just pretend to sleep until they get to Marseilles.

 

He also pretends he doesn’t hear their hushed, worried conversation about him.

 

-

 

Enjolras wakes up early in the morning from the sound of crashing waves. He groans. Combeferre’s left his jacket (Enjolras was cold last night, so he borrowed it) on the dresser, thrown on top of Enjolras’ books. He was going to unpack last night, but he was too tired.

 

Sighing, Enjolras rolls over to get out of bed, and almost screams when he sees Grantaire by the window, hands tucked in the pockets of his dark skinny jeans, watching the ocean.

 

“Seriously,” he says, running a hand through his unruly hair. “Stop doing that.”

 

“Doing what?” Grantaire turns to look at him. He looks so radiant in the morning light. Hauntingly angelic. “I’m just standing here.”

 

“Exactly.” Enjolras gets up and walks past Grantaire to grab an outfit from his bag. “You just show up here, and you don’t give me any warnings.”

 

“I’m sorry, was I supposed to knock? I didn’t want to wake you up.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “That’s very considerate.”

 

“I keep telling you, I’m actually a nice guy. You humans just won’t believe me.”

 

Enjolras just snorts and goes to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He feels relieved now that Grantaire’s here, because maybe that means he’ll have to deal with his friends less. Maybe that means he’ll have someone he can actually talk to, someone who doesn’t look at him like he’s lost his mind.

 

Enjolras suddenly stops getting dressed. He realizes that maybe, _just maybe_ , he prefers Grantaire over his friends. And he doesn’t really have a problem with that.

 

-

 

“Hey, Enj, you coming with us to the beach?” Courfeyrac asks. He’s smiling, like he has been for the past four hours.

 

Enjolras nods. “Yeah, I just want to grab a book. I’ll meet you guys there.”

 

Courfeyrac’s smile grows wider and his face lights up. “Okay! Cool.”

 

He excitedly bounds over to join the rest of Les Amis, who were all waiting in the lobby for him. They wave at Enjolras – Combeferre gives him a concerned look, which he pretends not to notice – before heading out. A blast of hot wind enters the hotel. Enjolras is suddenly glad Cosette said they’d get ice cream.

 

He quickly heads to his room to grab a book (he sucks at beach volleyball, and he knows he’ll end up playing a round anyways), and finds Grantaire sitting by his bed, lost in thought. He’s frowning at something, eyes narrowed, chin resting on his hand.

 

Enjolras slowly closes the door. “What’s wrong?”

 

Grantaire looks up at him, clearly startled. He must have been very deep in thought. “Nothing.”

 

He dismisses the thought with a flick of his hand, but it clearly wasn’t nothing. Knowing him, though, Enjolras isn’t going to press. Grantaire will tell him if he wants to.

 

“I’m, uh, we’re heading out to the beach,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t know why. It’s not like he expects Grantaire to join them. What would he do there? “I just wanted to let you know, in case – what is that?”

 

He narrows his eyes at a bright blue container on the bed. Grantaire’s eyes widen, like he’s just remembered it’s there. He holds it up to Enjolras and grins.

 

“Cool whip.” Grantaire hands it over. It’s light, and covered in condensation. “For you. It’s a peace offering.”

 

Enjolras examines the container. “Made of sugar and cream?”

 

Grantaire nods. “What else would be suitable? Clotho told me it’s fun to eat, and I just know how much you love eating unhealthy foods.”

 

Enjolras laughs quietly. He’s assuming that Clotho is one of the Fates, even though Grantaire’s only ever mentioned one. He’ll have to ask about that, later. There’s a lot of things he’d like to ask, to learn more about. But right now, he has a container of cool whip to eat, and a beach to enjoy.

 

“Thanks,” he says.

 

“Anytime, Enjolras. Anytime.”

 

-

 

It’s nice and sunny out, and their section of the beach isn’t overcrowded. Courfeyrac took Bahorel, Jehan, and Cosette to go play beach volleyball an hour ago, and everyone else has mostly left Enjolras alone, in his little corner of the world. He’s got his cool whip and a book, and his feet in the water. There’s a group of kids building a sandcastle nearby, and he likes to look over and observe their progress.

 

“I didn’t know we brought cool whip.”

 

Enjolras looks up. Combeferre’s pulled a chair up to him. He has a can of soda in his hands.

 

“We didn’t,” Enjolras says.

 

“Then where did you get it from?” Combeferre’s clearly confused. Or maybe he knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it.

 

Enjolras looks down at the container. “Grantaire gave it to me.”

 

There’s a pause. Combeferre nods. He looks slightly disappointed as he stands up again. Enjolras wonders what he did wrong. Should he have lied? Said he bought it here, in Marseilles? Maybe that was the right answer. Maybe he’s not allowed to talk about Grantaire.

 

“Oh.” Combeferre lets out a sad breath before walking off.

 

Enjolras watches him go. So maybe it wasn’t the right thing to say. But if his friends have an issue with that, they should’ve talked to him. They should’ve said something. How is he supposed to know that Grantaire is a forbidden topic? Not that he even understands why, anyways. But that doesn’t matter, does it?

 

Nothing Enjolras says or does matters anymore.

 

~

 

“Ferre, listen to me.” Eponine grabs Combeferre’s hands and yanks him down. She leans across the table, determination written all over her face. “Listen to me. There has to be a logical explanation-“

 

“There is!” Combeferre groans and runs a hand through his hair. He’s so tired of having to defend himself to Les Amis. “There _is_ a logical explanation, Ponine. Enjolras bought it, but he’s telling himself he didn’t. Maybe he was drunk.”

 

Eponine isn’t fazed. “Does he seem drunk?”

 

“I don’t know. I’m just saying-“

 

She sighs. “I heard you the first time. Grantaire isn’t real, he’s just a figment of Enjolras’ imagination. I know. We all know. But maybe you should talk to him, not us.”

 

“I’ve tried that,” Combeferre mutters.

 

“Have you?”

 

_Not really. I try talking to Enjolras, but he doesn’t talk back. Maybe I can try another way? There has to be some way I can get him to talk to me._

 

“No.” Combeferre sighs.

 

Eponine looks over at Enjolras, who’s still eating his cool whip. His book is still open, but it doesn’t look like he’s reading it. He might be “talking to Grantaire,” for all Combeferre knows. He sighs again. He wishes he did know, but Enjolras doesn’t talk to him.

 

“Well? Are you going to go talk to him or what?” Eponine’s voice rings with impatience.

 

Combeferre rolls his eyes and gets up, taking his half-empty water bottle with him. He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say to Enjolras, not really. What is there to talk about? Grantaire? Enjolras has already made it clear he doesn’t want to discuss that, and Combeferre’s not going to try and get it out of him. Then what else? Should he demand explanations? For everything he’s done _because of_ Grantaire?

 

Enjolras barely glances at him. “I thought we were done.”

 

“We’re never done.” Combeferre shoves his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “Listen, Enj, I just… I want to apologize.”

 

Enjolras raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

 

“For pushing you,” Combeferre continues. “I’m sorry for how I was acting to you, and for trying to get you to talk about something you don’t want to… and yeah, you’re right, maybe I don’t get the situation. But I’d really appreciate it if you just talked to me, regardless. It doesn’t even have to be about your – we can talk about whatever you want.”

 

Enjolras is silent. “Thanks.”

 

“So, are we… are we good?”

 

Enjolras smiles that brilliant, genuine smile of his. “I think I can do that.”

 

They talk. They talk endlessly, for hours, about anything and everything. They talk about things Combeferre expected, like plans for next week’s Les Amis Sleepover (the first one Enjolras can attend), and things he didn’t expect, like fossils. For someone who’s never studied the topic, Enjolras suddenly seems to know a lot about the natural history of the world.

 

Combeferre finds his mind drifting. He’s a little disconcerted now. Enjolras has never liked science all that much, and if he ever needed to take a nap during school, it was always during lessons about animals, or topography. He never cared for those subjects, and now, all of a sudden, he’s an expert. Why would he just decide to read up on it?

 

Unless he didn’t read up on it. And someone told him everything.

 

_But that doesn’t make sense, either. Who’d know all this stuff, and then tell Enjolras about it? We all know he hates –_ Combeferre pauses his train of thought. That can’t be the answer. It just _can’t_ be. That would be even more illogical than Enjolras knowing more than two dinosaur species.

 

_Unless it wasn’t one of us._

 

He pushes the thought away. Grantaire’s just a figment of Enjolras’ imagination. He isn’t real. Therefore, he couldn’t have told Enjolras all this. That’s impossible.

 

“Ferre, you all right?” Enjolras is frowning at him now. “You look a little… out of it.”

 

Combeferre shakes his head. “Yeah, no, I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”

 

Still looking unconvinced, Enjolras resumes his story. Combeferre doesn’t think about Grantaire until they head back to the hotel to get changed before dinner. It bothers him now, more than it did before. He’s always trained himself to be a logical man.

 

But maybe this situation doesn’t need logic.

 

~

 

Enjolras wakes up at two in the morning from another nightmare. It’s the same one he’s been having for days. The Forest. A cloaked figure. He can’t seem to get away from that. And even though he knows what’s going to happen, it still terrifies him.

 

Grantaire’s not in the room. Enjolras sighs. He needs someone to talk to, but he doesn’t want to go to Les Amis. They’ll just ask questions. Tell him he’s insane. Send him to a doctor. He doesn’t have the energy (or the will) to deal with them right now.

 

So instead, he heads out to the beach.

 

There’s no one out there, except for a group of drunk teenagers far off. The stars glimmer in the gentle waves. It’s so serene, so beautiful. Enjolras wishes the beach was always like this.

 

He finds a log to sit on, by the water, and just thinks. He thinks about talking to Les Amis, about Grantaire, about beaches and cool whips and why the sky looks so dull compared to Grantaire’s mesmerizing eyes.

 

“I like the beach at night.”

 

Enjolras turns to face Grantaire, who’s sitting beside him on the log. His eyes follow the motion of the waves. “What?”

 

“I don’t like it when there’s people,” Grantaire continues. “It takes away from all this natural beauty, but I suppose…”

 

He looks over at Enjolras, face framed by moonlight. Enjolras wonders if he’s going to tell him another story, about this beach, or maybe another one. He wouldn’t mind. He needs something to take his mind off of the nightmare.

 

“Maybe having you here takes away from its beauty, too.” Grantaire’s still looking at him.

 

They’re so close. Their breaths mingle. Enjolras could lean in, if he wanted to, and then he could-

 

He looks back at the beach instead, and laughs. He doesn’t want to think about that possibility.

 

“Flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere,” he says.

 

Grantaire nudges his shoulder. “It was a genuine compliment. Learn to appreciate those.”

 

“I will when it becomes necessary.” Enjolras can’t help himself. He smiles as he watches the waves, and the stars. Grantaire, being Death and all that, isn’t actually a bad person. He makes Enjolras happy. “I had another nightmare.”

 

There’s a pause. Enjolras wonders if it was the wrong thing to say, if maybe he killed the mood.

 

“I know,” Grantaire says. He’s smiling softly, too. “I was trying to make you feel better.”

 

“Thanks, but I-“

 

Enjolras’ words die out on his tongue. He can hear footsteps approach them, and he wonders who it is. Maybe it’s more people who prefer the beach at night. Maybe it’s someone coming to tell them they aren’t allowed on the beach now, even though that seems unlikely. Enjolras turns around –

 

And comes face-to-face with Les Amis.

 

His eyes go wide. This wasn’t what he was expecting. Beside him, Grantaire’s gone completely still.

 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says slowly. “Who’s this?”

 

Enjolras’ voice catches in his throat. It’s suddenly so hard to talk.

 

“Um, guys,” he says. He looks over at Grantaire, who gives him a reassuring nod. He can do this. “This is Grantaire.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger (not, it was intentional and you know that) :)
> 
> Hit me up with book recommendations, if you have any!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long, I forgot to mention I went on vacation! Thank you to everyone who's still reading this, I love you all for having faith in this (and me)! Special thanks to my sister and beta reader, and my dear friend Mirela who's birthday is tomorrow!!!

It feels like an eternity has passed before anyone says anything. Grantaire attempts to leave at some point, but Enjolras grabs his wrist. He doesn’t want to be left alone, not now.

 

“What?” Feuilly says finally. His eyes are narrowed, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

 

Enjolras doesn’t blame him. He’s not entirely sure he believes everything himself, but he has to. He doesn’t get to pretend he’s just gone mad.

 

“Um.” Enjolras awkwardly clears his throat. This is suddenly a lot harder than he thought it’d be. “This is Grantaire. You know, the supposed “figment of my imagination” I was always talking to?”

 

Grantaire blinks, surprised. Enjolras might’ve forgotten to tell him everything about how his friends perceived him. That might’ve been a tiny mistake.

 

“What the fuck?” Combeferre asks softly.

 

No one says anything else. Enjolras doesn’t have the heart to explain to Combeferre that all this time, he wasn’t talking to thin air. He doesn’t really want to tell any of Les Amis about his whole situation, about the war, and he certainly doesn’t want them to know he’s been off having (theoretical) coffee with Death.

 

But, _of course,_ Grantaire has to ruin everything.

 

“What Enjolras means to say,” Grantaire states, nudging Enjolras’ shoulder. He finds this amusing. “Is that all this time, when you, his “friends”, thought he was crazy, he was actually talking to Death about an incredibly serious war. I’m starting to think we should’ve told you sooner.”

 

“ _Grantaire,_ ” Enjolras hisses. “What are you-“

 

His words are swallowed up by the sudden explosion of questions from Les Amis. They’re practically attacking Grantaire – and Enjolras, by extension – for answers about the war, who he really is, why they’ve kept this a secret for so long, whether he’ll fight Bahorel or not. Enjolras’ head is swimming with all these unconnected words. He needs to get away.

 

As he desperately tries to leave (it’s a terrible attempt, really), Enjolras notices Eponine standing at the back of the group. She’s the only one who hasn’t said anything yet, and she hasn’t even lifted her gaze. Is the sand really that interesting? Deciding it isn’t his place to question her, Enjolras quietly distances himself from his friends. He’ll let them deal with this, and ask all their inane questions.

 

By the time Les Amis have finished harassing Grantaire for information, Eponine still hasn’t uttered a single word. It’s concerning.

 

But Eponine’s always been a bit strange, and maybe there are some things better left buried.

 

~

 

“Why did you hide this from us?”

 

Enjolras sighs as he glances out the van window. Of course Combeferre’s been waiting to ask that. Of course he’d ask that when Grantaire isn’t there. Of course he’d ask it anyways.

 

“I don’t know,” Enjolras says, shrugging. “It just never came up.”

 

Combeferre almost loses his grip on the steering wheel. Who let him drive, anyways? “Never came up? Enjolras, you’ve got to be kidding me. You had the chance to tell us about this. A lot of chances.”

 

“Well, Grantaire didn’t want to tell you until it was necessary.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t have the patience for this now. Marseilles was great and all, but he’d rather save this conversation for his deathbed. He doesn’t want to have it in Bahorel’s van, when everyone else is listening (even though Courfeyrac’s pretending to read Vogue), and Combeferre has all the Les Amis in Musichetta’s car on the phone.

 

“And it wasn’t necessary before now?” Combeferre lets out an irritated breath. “The nerves on that man.”

 

“Um, well, he _is_ Death, he kind of gets to do whatever he wants.” Enjolras really wants to get this over with. “Also, he could kill any of you right now, so I wouldn’t get on his bad side.”

 

Combeferre rolls his eyes. “And of course you, his mortal favorite, will never find yourself on his bad side. How convenient.”

 

“Shut up,” Enjolras mutters.

 

Combeferre doesn’t say anything for a while, and neither does anyone else. They’re all pretending to be busy with something else, but Enjolras knows. He knows they’re watching him. He knows they’re listening. He knows they’re thinking the same things, only Combeferre’s brave enough to say them.

 

Musichetta sighs. “Enjolras, honey.”

 

She’s going to lecture him now. Musichetta’s going to passive-aggressively lecture him, and then she’s probably going to reprimand Combeferre because that’s what she does. Her lectures always start this way, no matter who she’s talking to.

 

_“Courf, honey.”_

_“Marius, honey.”_

_“Bahorel, honey.”_

It doesn’t matter. It simply doesn’t matter. Enjolras is just a pawn in everyone’s game, and he’s already accepted that. But maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe, he can stand up for himself, just this one time. He already stands up for everyone else, why should this be any harder?

 

But Musichetta’s already a force to be reckoned with, so maybe he shouldn’t start with her. He’ll wait for Combeferre’s next “good-intentions talk” instead.

 

“You know we don’t mean to hurt you, right? Or make you upset, or mad?” Musichetta continues. Maybe she isn’t going to lecture him. There’s something uncharacteristically soothing in her voice. “I mean, sure, we all wish you would’ve told us sooner, but we can’t change the past. I probably would’ve kept it a secret too.”

 

“I wouldn’t have even owned up to it,” Cosette screams over the phone.

 

Enjolras narrows his eyes, suspicious. What is this? Are they… do they think he’s brave or something? Are they just trying to balance out Combeferre’s negativity about the whole situation?

 

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks slowly.

 

His question is ignored. Of course.

 

“The point is,” Musichetta says, snatching the phone back. “You did good, Enj. _We_ think you did good, and don’t tell me you didn’t.” There’s a pause. “No one tell me Enj didn’t do good or it’ll be you I put in my beef stew. Got it? But anyways, what was I saying… oh, right. You owned up to it, when you could’ve just lied. And you’re right, I mean, it’s not like you had a reason to tell us before-“

 

Combeferre lets out a loud, irritated sigh.

 

“-so just… just think about it, okay? Don’t be too hard on yourself. And Ferre – stop being you, just this one time. Let Enj live his life.”

 

Before anyone can respond, Musichetta hangs up. The van is suddenly extremely quiet. It’s not like they’ve talked much since last night, but now it feels even emptier.

 

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre says. He briefly glances at Enjolras before looking back out at the road.

 

Enjolras shrugs. “It’s fine.”

 

It isn’t. He’s just lying so he won’t have to have this conversation.

 

“No, it’s not.” Combeferre shakes his head. He sounds irritated, but it isn’t directed at Enjolras. “It’s not fine. Chetta’s right, I haven’t… I haven’t been handling this well. I don’t think you could even say I’m handling the situation, because I’m not. I’m really, really not, and I’m sorry.

 

“I just… I was scared, okay? I didn’t know what to do – hell, I _still_ don’t know what to do – and I let it out on you because I’m stupid like that. So anyways, I… I don’t really know where I’m going with this. I just want you to know that I am sorry for how I’ve been treating you, and I’m sorry that I haven’t been a good friend.”

 

Enjolras blinks, startled. That wasn’t what he was expecting to hear at all. And he doesn’t really know how to respond to that.

 

“It’s okay,” he says. “I get it.”

 

“Okay,” Combeferre says, nodding.

 

There’s another pause of awkward silence. Enjolras turns to look out the window again.

 

“So, are we all good?” Courfeyrac asks, lowering his magazine.

 

Combeferre rolls his eyes. “Yes, Courf, we’re fine.”

 

“Thank the heavens!” Courfeyrac throws his hands up and pats the van’s ceiling, like he’s reaching for the sky.

 

“You’re not religious,” Bahorel says.

 

“My parents are.” Courfeyrac pauses and leans forward in his seat. “But can I tell you guys something?”

 

“We already know you’re pan, Courf,” Combeferre says. “You don’t need to tell us every time you see someone attractive.”

 

Courfeyrac pouts. “Yes I do! Otherwise, that defeats the purpose.”

 

“Explains why he doesn’t say it every time he sees you,” Enjolras says, grinning.

 

Everyone bursts into laughter, including Combeferre (who looks like he’s trying really, really hard to keep it in, but that might also be because he’s driving). Enjolras is glad they can do this again – the friendly teasing, the laughing. He misses this.

 

“Solid burn,” Jehan says. Enjolras thought they were asleep.

 

“Weren’t you asleep?” Feuilly asks.

 

"I woke up,” Jehan replies.

 

They all start laughing again, because they’ve realized how stupid that question is. Obviously Jehan’s awake. Enjolras misses this, too. Asking stupid questions, and then laughing about them. He misses being happy with his friends.

 

“Speaking of attractive people,” Courfeyrac blurts. “Isn’t Death just such a babe?”

 

Combeferre snorts. “You do realize how insane that sounds.”

 

“Acknowledged,” Courfeyrac says, nodding. He sighs dreamily. “But isn’t he just so damn hot?”

 

Enjolras coughs. He feels his cheeks burning. “What.”

 

“I mean, obviously you’re hot too.” Courfeyrac waves his hand in Combeferre’s direction. “But I can’t help finding people attractive. And you can’t say he isn’t, because that’s lying. I mean, I wouldn’t mind if he-“

 

“God, can you-“ Enjolras takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “Please don’t finish that sentence. Geez. I don’t… I don’t want to think of Grantaire that way.”

 

“Yeah Courf, stop sexualizing Death,” Bahorel says.

 

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “You guys just have terrible tastes. Ferre! You agree with me, right?”

 

“No comment,” Combeferre says.

 

“Enj, I’m so jealous. What did you do to land such a guy?” Courfeyrac asks.

 

Enjolras chokes on air and coughs. He blinks. “What.”

 

“He’s embarrassed,” Jehan says. They’ve snatched Courfeyrac’s magazine and are now browsing through it. “Let him be.”

 

“What? I’m not embarrassed-“

 

Combeferre clears his throat. “Maybe we should just switch the subject. Courf, that’s great and all, have fun with your weird attraction to the Grim Reaper, let’s just leave it at that.”

 

They drop the subject, and instead talk about uninteresting things like university and family and politics. Enjolras couldn’t care less for such things right now. He still can’t wrap his mind around the fact that Courfeyrac finds Grantaire attractive. What is it he finds attractive, anyways? Is it his smile? His hair? His haunting eyes?

 

Enjolras thinks he knows, but that’s something he’s not ready to acknowledge.

 

~

 

“How’s the angel situation?”

 

Atropos raises an eyebrow. She doesn’t even spare Grantaire a glance – she’s too invested in the children at the park. Of course she has to be at such a public location. It’s something she’d do.

 

“Who invited you here?” She asks.

 

Grantaire sits down next to her and shrugs. “I did.”

 

“Is this your way of checking if it’s safe to bring the Chosen One back?”

 

Atropos is looking at him now. There isn’t even a hint of hostility in her eyes, which is rather strange. She’s always somewhat hostile to him.

 

“You never respond to my texts,” Grantaire says. “And don’t call him that. Enjolras wouldn’t like that.”

 

“Enjolras isn’t here,” Atropos replies, her voice sharp. And there it is.

 

“Integrity, Atropos. Have you heard of it?”

 

Grantaire doesn’t really mean to be snarky, but it just happens. Atropos brings that out in him.

 

“I have.” She turns her head back to the children, eyes narrowed. “Clotho and I have the situation under control. You don’t need to worry.”

 

Grantaire frowns. “What did you do?”

 

Atropos sighs. She’s irritated, which is never a good thing. “We simply told them that their presence is unwelcome, and they left.”

 

“But did you tell them not to come back?” Grantaire asks. Sometimes, Atropos can be a little vague, and right now he needs to know everything. “Did they say they’d leave us alone for good?”

 

Atropos remains unfazed. “We said no such thing, and neither did they. We don’t talk to angels unless we have no choice.”

 

Grantaire clenches his fist around the bench’s metal arm rest and rips it out of the wood. He doesn’t notice until he’s calmed down. He does that when he’s riled up, sometimes.

 

“Why didn’t you tell them that, Atropos?”

 

Atropos doesn’t say anything. So she’s not in a cooperative mood, then. Grantaire can deal with that. But before he even gets the chance to say something, she disappears.

 

Grantaire watches the children play for a while, but then it gets unbearable. There are some things he’d rather not think about.

 

-

 

"Atropos couldn't even get the stupid angel situation under control," Grantaire grumbles, frowning. He crosses his arms and leans against the wall. “Stupid.”

 

“Holy fuck!” There’s a loud thud, and then Enjolras peeks his head from behind the (French flag) shower curtain. His eyes are wide, and his hair is dripping. “What the actual fuck, Grantaire?”

 

Grantaire looks up and blinks, adjusting his eyes to the bright light. “What?”

 

There’s a pause, and Grantaire assumes that Enjolras is ignoring him because he’s getting whatever he dropped.

 

“Fucking hell, Grantaire! What are you doing here?” Enjolras is swinging an open shampoo bottle in his hand as he talks, and it’s so hard to take him seriously.

 

Grantaire tries to keep his laughter in, but it’s a terrible attempt. Enjolras frowns furiously.

 

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, still laughing.

 

“What? What is it?” Enjolras asks.

 

Grantaire points at the shampoo bottle. Enjolras doesn’t say anything when he sees the mess he’s made. He just glares at Grantaire and puts the bottle away.

 

“Okay, I’m good now,” Grantaire says. “Why are you swearing at me again?”

 

“Because you fucking showed up while I’m fucking showering! Is that a good enough reason for you?” Enjolras closes the shower curtain.

 

Grantaire scuffs his boots against the tile floor. “Fine, be that way. I just wanted to talk to you about important things that _you wanted to be a part of_ , but I guess not.”

 

There’s a pause. Grantaire can hear the water, the only sound breaking the silence. He can imagine it- no. No.

 

_No._

Grantaire is _not_ going there, not today, not now, not ever. He’s not thinking about that. He can’t think about that. It’s against the rules, it’s against everything he knows. He can’t think about it, because if he does, that means it’s true and it can’t be true. It just can’t.

 

He’s not going there.

 

“We can talk later,” Enjolras says. He sounds relaxed now. Maybe he’s thought about how unnecessarily dramatic his reaction was.

 

_What’s the big deal with privacy? If he really didn’t want me to come now, he could’ve told me._

“But-“

 

“No.” Enjolras pulls the shower curtain back just enough for Grantaire to see his face. He doesn’t look pleased, but he’s definitely not as angry as he was moments ago, so Grantaire considers that a win. “It can wait until I’m out of the shower, okay? It can’t be that important.”

 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “It is incredibly important. It’s about the angels.”

 

“Are they in my apartment?”

 

Grantaire blinks. He wasn’t expecting that. “No?”

 

“Are they outside my apartment?” Enjolras presses.

 

“No. What is this-“

 

“Good, then there’s nothing we need to talk about right now. It can wait. I’ll see you later.” Enjolras closes the shower curtain again.

 

Grantaire huffs and glares in Enjolras’ general direction. He hopes it’s making him uncomfortable. “But-“

 

“Bye.”

 

~

 

Enjolras finds Grantaire on his couch, intensely watching TV, a bowl of buttered popcorn in his hands. He looks like he hasn’t blinked in the past 48 hours. What else was Enjolras expecting? Of course he can’t even watch television like a normal person.

 

“What are you watching?” Enjolras asks, propping himself on couch’s arm rest.

 

Grantaire briefly looks up at him before focusing on the screen again. “It’s a show called “Ancient Aliens”. The kind of crap you humans believe-“

 

Enjolras grabs the remote and turns the TV off. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

 

“I was in the middle of a very good story about Babylon,” Grantaire protests. “You have no right to do that.”

 

“And I was in the middle of a shower, but that didn’t stop you. What did you want to tell me that was so important?”

 

Grantaire eats his popcorn, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Has he forgotten what he wanted to talk about? It couldn’t have been that important, then.

 

“Atropos told me…” Grantaire’s voice trails off.

 

Enjolras taps his hand, trying to get his attention back. “She told you what?”

 

“I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want you to get worried, you were supposed to be on vacation… when you guys left for Marseilles, some angels touched down here. They were looking for you. Nothing too serious, otherwise I would’ve told you. And I thought Atropos and Clotho had it under control, but now Atropos told me that the angels might come back. She told them to leave, but she didn’t tell them to stay away.”

 

Enjolras shrugs. “Well, if they come back, we’ll deal with them, right?”

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything.

 

“Right?” Enjolras nudges his shoulder. Grantaire’s silence is disconcerting. “Right? We’ll be able to deal with them?”

 

“Of course,” Grantaire says. “You don’t have to worry about them.”

 

Enjolras blinks. “Then what’s the problem here?”

 

“I don’t think I can trust Atropos, that’s all.”

 

“Hey, it’s okay. We’ll be okay, right?” Enjolras offers a gentle smile. “We’ll take care of the angels if they come back, with or without her help. I promise.”

 

Grantaire shrugs. He doesn’t really look like he believes Enjolras, and that’s okay. Half the fun is watching someone learn to believe.

 

~

 

Cosette doesn’t check her facebook often. She seems to be much more popular on Instagram (although, she probably owes part of that to Feuilly’s incredible photography skills), and no one uses it anyways. Except Enjolras. But he doesn’t count, he hasn’t learned how to use snapchat properly.

 

So it comes as a surprise when her phones beeps, while she’s working on new designs for her assignment at the Musain.

 

**_Facebook_ **

**_Message from: Felix Tholomyes_ **

****

“What?” Cosette whispers. _Who is this guy?_

She nervously clicks on the app, her fingers trembling. She doesn’t know a “Felix Tholomyes”, and no one’s ever mentioned someone by that name to her before. Could he be a potential client? Maybe a new professor?

 

_But then why would he try and contact me through facebook?_

Cosette takes a deep breath, her eyes widening as she sees the little red 1 hovering over the message icon. The last time she’s messaged someone on facebook was probably over a year ago, and that was only because Enjolras refused to take part in their “stupid, time-consuming” group chat. He doesn’t mind it as much now.

 

“What’s got you so spooked?”

 

Cosette looks up at Musichetta, who’s hovering by the edge of her table, one hand on her hip and the other holding a tray covered in mugs and plates.

 

“Nothing,” Cosette lies. She doesn’t want anyone else getting into this, because she doesn’t even know what _this_ is.

 

Musichetta narrows her eyes. “Why don’t I believe you?”

 

“Because you’re a skeptic.” Cosette reaches for her coffee, and frowns when she realizes it’s empty. “Could I-?”

 

Musichetta nods and takes the mug from her hands. “Sure thing, babe.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Musichetta doesn’t leave. She keeps scrutinising Cosette, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. It’s rather unsettling.

 

“I still don’t believe you.” Musichetta sighs. “You absolutely sure it’s nothing?”

 

Cosette shrugs. That bright red 1 is still seared in her mind. She can’t think of anything else. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m sure it’s nothing, Chetta.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Musichetta gives Cosette a small, half-hearted smile before leaving. Cosette sighs in relief. Finally, she can see what this Felix Tholomyes guy wants from her. She opens the message, her eyes wide.

 

**_Felix Tholomyes_ **

_Ms. Fauchelevent,_

_I hope I’m not disturbing you. My name is Felix Tholomyes, and I am the CEO of a publishing agency based in Paris. Twenty years ago, my daughter was placed in foster care without my knowledge. I only learned of her a few years ago, and since then I’ve been looking for her._

Cosette stares at her phone, fingers hovering over the screen. What? She rereads the message, and then she reads it a third time, because it isn’t making much sense. Some CEO contacted her to talk about his daughter? Why her? Did he want her help?

 

“What on earth…” Cosette pauses. He only sent the message two minutes ago – maybe if she replies now, she’ll get the chance to ask him what the hell is going on.

 

That is, if Felix Tholomyes is even a real person. He _could_ just be some creepy guy trying to catch potential dates, or someone trying to get money out of vulnerable people. But she can’t know this now, right?

 

_It’s worth the risk. If this guy really is looking for his daughter, I’d be happy to help him._

Cosette pulls up google, and after frantically making sure no one’s watching what she’s doing, types _Felix Tholomyes_ in the search bar. Instantly, she gets results.

 

**Felix Tholomyes on the importance of diversity in young adult fiction**

**What’s for Dinner? Felix Tholomyes on healthy living and nutrition**

**Tholomyes’ new client writes a ‘best-selling memoir’, according to the CEO**

**Tholomyes’ publishing empire expands to Britain**

_If there’s so much about this guy, why haven’t I heard of him before?_

 

Cosette clicks on the wikipedia entry, ignoring the urge to read the other articles. She doesn’t read the whole thing (it’s rather long), only skims through the important stuff. So this Felix Tholomyes guy is very legitimate. He was born in South Korea, but moved to France when he was three. He has a linguistics degree, but instead went on to become the CEO of one of the largest publishing agencies in the world.

 

_But why does he need my help finding his daughter? That just doesn’t make any sense. If he’s as rich and famous as he seems to be, then he can hire professionals. Why me? I don’t know the first thing about finding people._

Cosette doesn’t even notice when Musichetta comes buy to drop off her coffee – she’s focused entirely on replying to Tholomyes.

 

**_Cosette Fauchelevent_ **

_I’m sorry, but how does this concern me?_

 

Tholomyes responds almost instantaneously. Cosette’s heart pounds as she reads his message, eyes wide and unblinking. She doesn’t quite believe it.

 

**_Felix Tholomyes_ **

_You are my daughter._

 

“What?” Cosette whispers, staring at her phone screen.

 

This can’t… she can’t be this guy’s daughter. It’s not possible. Her mother would’ve told her something, she would’ve known – this can’t be real. He must be lying. What does he want from her? Money? A new intern? She just _can’t_ be his daughter.

Unless-

 

Cosette takes out the old, faded picture of her mother she keeps in her wallet and lays it down on the table. There’s another half of the picture she’s never seen, one that’s been ripped off years ago. And maybe that other half is a good place to start.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider Alessia Cara as Musichetta. Thank you for your time.
> 
> Come visit me on [ tumblr ](https://epo-nine.tumblr.com)
> 
> I'm open for asks!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four days, wow! I'm getting pretty good at this updating thing. All my love to everyone who's reading this, thank you so much! 
> 
> There are no Les Amis scenes in this chapter, sorry. But I promise some in the next!

Enjolras wakes up in a panic, eyes wide. His breath is sharp and uneven. His hands tremble as he reaches over to turn the light on. A soft, warm glow illuminates his room, casting light on even the darkest corners.

 

Unsurprisingly, Grantaire’s standing by his window. He says he just “likes to watch the stars”, but Enjolras has a feeling he’s really here to watch over him.

 

“Nightmare?” Grantaire asks, his voice barely audible.

 

Enjolras shakes his head. “No. I mean… yes, but it was-“

 

“Different?”

 

“Different,” Enjolras echoes.

 

Grantaire turns around to face him. Enjolras isn’t sure if his eyes are glowing, or it’s just a reflection of moonlight. And maybe he shouldn’t know. Half is fun is not being able to unravel Grantaire’s mysteries.

 

“How was it different?” Grantaire asks.

 

Enjolras shrugs. He’s still a little scared, and he doesn’t really know from what. “I don’t know. It just… was. It felt different.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything for a while. The silence isn’t awkward, though – it’s fitting.

 

“Do you want me to sleep with you?” He finally asks.

 

Enjolras blinks at him. “What?”

 

“Oh, come on.” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Get your head out of the gutter, Enjolras.”

 

“I never-“ Enjolras frowns. “I never said anything about that.”

 

Grantaire looks rather surprised. "Well, I thought you implied it. Never mind. Do you want my company, or not?”

 

Enjolras answers without really thinking, because he knows it’s a terrible idea. “Sure.”

 

He moves over so there's more room, and as Grantaire gets under the covers, their hands somehow end up entwined. Enjolras doesn't mind the cold. It's soothing. He also doesn’t mind that this is the first time he’s sharing a bed with someone since he was fifteen. He turns over to face Grantaire, who’s looking back at him with those unreadable eyes.

 

“Promise you’ll stay,” Enjolras whispers. “I don’t want to be alone.”

 

“I’ll never leave you alone,” Grantaire says, smiling softly. He gives Enjolras’ hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “I promise.”

 

Enjolras is pretty sure Grantaire says something else, but he falls asleep too quickly to try and figure out what it is. All that matters is that he’s not alone.

 

~

 

“I care about you,” Grantaire says. He knows Enjolras is asleep. “Maybe too much, for my own sake. But who can’t? I’d never leave you alone, Enjolras. I know you can’t hear me right now, but that doesn’t matter. Sleep well.”

 

In a heat-of-the-moment decision, Grantaire presses a soft kiss to Enjolras’ hand, his eyes closed. And he stays.

 

~

 

Enjolras wakes up to bright sunlight, his eyes barely open. He didn’t have another nightmare after he fell asleep. He hasn’t slept this good in a very long time. He yawns and stretches his arms out, and pulls back in surprise when he feels someone else.

 

Oh. Right. Grantaire.

 

Enjolras’ eyes widen. Was he sleeping _on_ Grantaire this whole time? He lifts his head – one arm is thrown across Grantaire’s stomach, and the other is on his chest. He doesn’t really know what to think of this. Why didn’t Grantaire just move? Or tell Enjolras that such intimacy isn’t okay?

 

“Morning.”

 

Enjolras blinks, startled, and loses his train of thought. Grantaire smiles up at him.

 

“Morning,” Enjolras replies, his voice rather quiet.

 

Grantaire sits up. He looks down at Enjolras' hands - at how close they are - but he doesn't say anything. He simply leans back against the wall and stretches his arms. His eyes are closed.

 

“How did you sleep?” Grantaire asks.

 

Enjolras shrugs. “Better, actually.”

 

Grantaire opens one eye and his smile widens. “No nightmares?”

 

“No nightmares,” Enjolras repeats.

 

"You sound disappointed," Grantaire says. He's frowning now. “Isn’t this a good thing?”  


Enjolras opens his mouth to reply, but he doesn’t really know what to say. Of course it’s a good thing. He hates getting those weird nightmares, and he hates how panicked they make him. So obviously, he’s happy he managed to sleep. But at the same time, he doesn’t know what to do about the fact that it was Grantaire’s presence (in his bed, right beside him, holding him while he slept) that helped. What does it even mean? Are they going to have to share a bed every night now? That’s not exactly a possibility Enjolras wants to consider.

 

“It is a good thing,” he says. Grantaire looks like he doesn’t believe him. “It’s just-“

 

“You’re not comfortable with the idea of sharing a bed.” Grantaire nods to himself. “I understand why you’d be uncomfortable with that. Society has led you to think it’s not acceptable for two men to share a bed, even if it’s just platonic, which is-“

 

“It’s not that.” It kind of is, though. Not because society’s conditioned him to think that, but because Enjolras is afraid of the consequences if it evolves into something a little less platonic. Not that he thinks about that too much. “I just don’t want to become too dependent, you know? I need to be able to handle this on my own.”

 

Grantaire pats his hand reassuringly. “There are some things you just can’t handle by yourself, Enjolras. Thousands of years with humans has taught me that. And that’s okay. Don’t feel bad about needing someone else. That’s what friends are for.”

 

“You think we’re-“

 

“And besides,” Grantaire interrupts. “I’d never let you become too dependent. You’d get too annoying.”

 

Enjolras laughs. “You say that like I’m not already annoying.”

 

“Not really.” Grantaire shrugs. He pauses. “Now be honest with me. Would you be comfortable with sleeping with me if it means you won’t have nightmares?”

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. He knows he’d get used to it, eventually, and then it wouldn’t bother him as much. It’s probably not that big of a deal, anyways. And it _did_ help him, at least this one time… so maybe, it’s be worth it to try again.

 

“I guess I can give it a try,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t really sound like he means it, and he’s well aware of that.

 

Grantaire suddenly leans forward and places his hands on Enjolras’ face, forcing him to look at him. There’s something mysterious in his eyes, something alluring.

 

“Would you be all right with it?” He asks, voice dangerously low.

 

Enjolras briefly averts his gaze to his lips and then looks back up at his eyes. One day, those eyes are going to burn him. And he won’t even mind.

 

“Yes,” Enjolras whispers.

 

They’re both silent now. All Enjolras can hear is their synchronised breaths, and his own pounding heart. They’re so close. Maybe too close. Grantaire looks like he’s going to lean in even further, maybe kiss-

 

But then he pulls back and pats Enjolras on the shoulder, almost like nothing had happened. Like they weren’t just about to kiss. Or maybe that was all in Enjolras’ head, and nothing was going to happen anyways. He can’t really tell the boundary between what’s real and what isn’t anymore.

 

“We have an arrangement,” Grantaire says.

 

“Yeah,” Enjolras says. “I guess we do.”

 

~

 

**How do I know I’m actually your daughter?**

_You can’t know until we meet._

Cosette bites her lip. So now he wants to meet her – giving away his phone number just isn’t enough, apparently. Should she bring someone with her? In case he turns out to be a serial killer, or something?

 

**So you want to meet?**  
  
_I think it’s a good idea. I’ve waited very long to get to know my daughter._

Cosette rolls her eyes. She’s never even wanted to meet her father, but that’s probably because her mother used to tell her bad stories about him. About how he used to be a nice guy, and then he abandoned her. About how she tried to contact him, asking for help with raising a child, and he refused to acknowledge that he was a father. And even though he seems nice enough now, Cosette still isn’t sure she really wants to get to know him.

 

**When and where?**  
  


_There’s a café near my office, it’s called Starbucks. Have you heard of it?_  
  


**Everyone has.**

_Well, I think it’s a decent enough place to meet. And is tomorrow at lunch a good time for you?_  
  
It’s Friday tomorrow, which means Cosette only has her morning lecture. She’s free for the rest of the day, which also includes lunch. She knows she’d be taking a huge risk if she agreed to meet, but if this guy really is her birth father, then it’d be rude to deny him the opportunity to get to know her. She knows she’d want to know her long-lost kids, too.

 

**Tomorrow’s good.**

_I’ll see you then, Ms. Fauchelevent._

~

 

Eponine is twelve years old. Her parents – as always – are fighting about Babet’s proposition from their last gang meeting. He suggested starting up a business (a strip club, he called it), and using the “girls” to extract information from, and maybe even kill, their enemies. Her father thought it was a great idea, but her mother thought it’d be a waste of energy.

 

_“Where would you even get your girls from?” She screamed._

_“From the bloody streets, you fool!” Her father yelled back._

They’ve been at it for over an hour, and Eponine doesn’t think they’re going to stop any time soon. She’s in her room now – if you can call it that, anyways. Even in their illegally-owned, rather big house, her parents gave her the small attic.

 

_“You’ll survive,” they said. “You’re a Thenardier.”_

But Eponine never really feels like one of them. Her parents sent her out to steal money or food, and she’s even heard them talk about “selling her” (whatever that means), but she never really wants to do that. She doesn’t have the same desire to live like this. She sees normal kids her age, living decent lives in their nice homes with their nice, regular parents, and that appeals to her way more than joining her father’s crime gang.

 

But even now, living her horrible life, Eponine has one tiny spark of hope. Someone who keeps her grounded, stops her from killing herself. And she’s tried, countless times. But he’s always there to tell her she needs to keep going, to remind her she’s loved.

 

“Hey, Eponine.”

 

She turns around, her lips curving up in a wide smile. Maybe, _just maybe_ , with him around, her life will be a little more bearable.

 

And maybe tonight, when she goes to sleep, she won’t dream of death.

 

~

 

When Cosette goes back to her apartment, still a little anxious about her meeting with Tholomyes tomorrow, she’s greeted by Eponine and Marius, who both seem concerned.

 

“Hello to you too,” Cosette says, hanging her coat up.

 

She feels like they’re staging an intervention, but she doesn’t know what for. And frankly, she doesn’t have the energy to deal with this right now.

 

“You look nervous,” Eponine comments. Her arms are crossed. “Why are you nervous?”

 

Cosette rolls her eyes, trying to pretend there really isn’t anything going on. “I’m not. I’m just tired.”

 

“Tired my ass.” Eponine narrows her eyes. “Come on, ‘Sette. What dirty secret are you hiding from us?”

 

Marius blinks. “What? You told me this is an intervention.”  


Eponine sighs and ruffles his hair. “This is what interventions are.”

 

“I’m not hiding anything,” Cosette lies.

 

“Sure,” Eponine drawls, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “And I’m straight.”

 

“Really, I’m not-“

 

“Cosette.” Marius’s expression is entirely serious, which is both disconcerting and flattering. “Please. We don’t want you to feel like you need to hide anything from us.”

 

“Yeah,” Eponine agrees. Her eyes have softened, like she isn’t angry anymore. “And if it’s something bad, we want to help you. We’re not going to judge you, babe. Hell, you could even say you’re on cocaine and-“

 

“I’m going to meet my possible birth father tomorrow,” Cosette blurts.

 

She’s not entirely sure why she said that. She could’ve just told them it wasn’t anything important, or that an assignment was stressing her out, and they would’ve left her alone. But she feels bad keeping secrets from them, and if anyone should meet her father, it’d have to be them.

 

Eponine and Marius don’t say anything for a moment. They both look like they weren’t expecting that at all. And that makes sense, honestly. Why should they assume Cosette’s been contacted by her might-be birth father?

 

“Holy fuck,” Eponine says. “I never would’ve guessed that. Why didn’t you tell us?”  


Cosette sighs. “Because we only set it up today, and I don’t even _know_ if he’s my real father.”

 

They don’t say anything. Marius still looks like he can’t believe Cosette’s father isn’t biologically related to her, and Eponine looks like she’s trying to process everything. Cosette can practically see the gears in her head turning.

 

“Do you want one of us to be there with you?” She asks finally. “In case he turns out to be some creep, or whatever?”

 

Cosette shakes her head. “No, I think I need to do this on my own. But I’ll let you know if he’s giving me bad vibes, I promise.”

 

Eponine seems to relax a bit, but she's still on edge. "You better.”

 

Cosette gives her a comforting pat on the shoulder. She knows Eponine and Marius are worried about this, but she doesn’t want them to be. It’ll only make her even more nervous. She can handle whatever Tholomyes will throw her way. But even though she doesn’t need the protection, it’s better to give them the benefit of the doubt. If it helps them stay calm, then Cosette’s willing to say whatever it takes.

 

She only hopes she won’t have to protect herself.

 

~

 

Atropos seems to have forgotten about their argument, because she hasn’t brought it up in the past half hour. Well. Neither of them have talked, anyways. But in Grantaire’s books, that’s still a good sign.

 

“I can get Clotho to watch over the Chosen One,” she says.

 

Grantaire frowns at her. “Why? I’m here.”

 

“Yes.” Atropos turns her head to briefly acknowledge him. “But she might be able to do the job without adding unnecessary sentimental value.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Grantaire knows what she’s talking about, but he desperately wishes he’s wrong.

 

“You’re getting too attached to him.” There’s a pause. She’s trying to phrase this nicely. “And I cannot have that happen. You understand why, correct?”

 

Grantaire scoffs. “No.”

 

Atropos looks over at him, properly, and her glistening eyes are unusually kind. “I don’t mean to make this hard for you, but I have to tell you eventually. I am happy to hear you are making progress with him, but you’re taking this too far. I don’t want you to be attached to him. Your feelings might prevent you from doing your job.”

 

“I don’t have feelings-“ Grantaire pauses and narrows his eyes. “My job?”

 

Atropos nods. “Yes, your job.”

 

“And what is my job?”

 

Grantaire doesn’t think he really wants to know the answer, but he hates it when Atropos expects him to know everything. And if it’s something he won’t like, he’d rather have the bandage ripped off now.

 

“To reap the Chosen One when his time comes.”

 

Grantaire stares at her, completely silent. And when he does talk, his voice is quiet and broken. “Get someone else to do it.”

 

“There’s no one else qualified,” Atropos says sharply.

 

“I don’t want to.” Grantaire takes a deep breath, his hands curled into fists. “I can’t.”  


Atropos gives him a scrutinising glare. “This is what I meant. You’re already too emotionally attached to him, there isn’t anything I can do now. But when the time comes – and it will come – you must be prepared. Try not to invest more in him.”  


She leaves Grantaire alone again, staring out at the Seine and trying hard not to think about the inevitable. And it is, unfortunately, inevitable. Grantaire knows – he knew from the beginning he’d have to reap Enjolras in the end. He knows he’ll be the one who sees the light leave his eyes, feel his hands go cold, hear his very last breaths.

 

And maybe Atropos is right. Maybe he _is_ too emotionally attached. Maybe he needs to let go. But Enjolras shines like the sun in a dark world, and Grantaire can’t look away.

 

And maybe he doesn’t want to look away.

 

~  


Cosette shows up at the Starbucks half an hour before noon, because she isn’t exactly sure what time “lunch” is. Assuming she’s probably really early, she orders a hibiscus refresher and grabs a seat at a hidden corner table, where she’s rather separated from everyone else. Checking to make sure Tholomyes hasn’t arrived, she takes _A Game of Thrones_ out of her backpack and starts reading. Eponine keeps insisting that she get into Game of Thrones, so she might as well give it a try.

 

At exactly noon (according to her watch), someone approaches her table. At first, Cosette thinks it’s a barista, asking how long she’s planning on staying, but then she looks up and her eyes go wide.

 

Tholomyes.

 

His hand is extended, and he’s sporting a bright smile. Like they’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in years. Cosette slowly lowers her book and reaches out to shake his hand. It’s warm.

 

“H-hi,” she stutters, trying her best to smile.

 

Tholomyes takes the seat in front of her. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

 

“Yeah,” Cosette says. “You too.”

 

Tholomyes gives her a small smile. Neither of them say anything, and they just sit in prolonged awkward silence. Cosette plays with her zipper, sliding it up and down her jacket. For once, she doesn’t really know what to say or do. She’s never found herself in such a situation.

 

“I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I don’t really know what to do. I’ve never met with my long-lost dad before.”

 

Tholomyes laughs, but it comes out more like an awkward cough. “I’ve never met my long-lost daughter. We’re both new to this.”

 

Knowing she won’t be able to bear the silence any longer, Cosette takes out her picture of her mother from her wallet and holds it in her hands.

 

“I have this picture.” She sniffs. She can’t tell if she’s sick or emotional. “Of my mom, and it’s… it’s ripped. I mean, I never had the other half, but I know there _is_ another half. It looks ripped. And I was…” she needs to make this seem like she trusts him. Cosette can’t make her doubts known. “I was wondering if you have the other half?”

 

Tholomyes looks at her thoughtfully. “Can I see the picture?”

 

Cosette nods quickly – maybe _too_ quickly – and slides the picture across the table. Even when it’s in Tholomyes’ hands, she can still see her mother’s young, smiling face. The picture’s now faded and old, but Cosette can tell her mother was beautiful. She wishes she remembered her more.

 

Tholomyes smiles to himself as he runs his fingers along the picture, tracing familiar lines. “I remember when this was taken. We were in university… back then, we thought the whole world was ours.”

 

“What happened?” Cosette asks. She knows the stories. But they’re only opinions until she has his side, too.

 

Tholomyes sighs. “We just weren’t good for each other, I think. Your mother – Fantine – wanted to go one way, and I wanted to go another. Staying together felt more like a chore than it should have, so we parted.”

 

_That’s not what Mom told me._ Cosette tries to hide her frown. _She told me you up and ditched her one night. No note. Nothing. Just an open window and an empty bed. What are you hiding?_  
  


“So do you have the other half?” Cosette presses. That’s the only way she can know for sure. That, and if her dad remembers anything he was told.

 

Tholomyes takes a small picture out of his pocket and places it against Cosette’s.

 

“I keep it with me,” he says. “As a reminder of the good old days. And I have a picture of your mother, too, but I don’t carry it with me. It’s in my office.”

 

Cosette isn’t really listening to what he’s saying. She’s too busy staring at the pictures, at the missing half. At the ripped image of a young, once-happy couple.

 

At her parents.

 

Her hands start shaking. It’s too much. Cosette doesn’t get overwhelmed easily, but this… she doesn’t know to handle this. What does one do when they meet their long-lost birth father? She can’t even think, her heart’s pounding and her stomach flutters with butterflies.

 

_What do I do?_

She needs comfort. Familiarity. Café Musain. Without another word, Cosette grabs her half of the picture, gets up, and runs out of the Starbucks.

 

~

 

“Do you remember anything?”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. Asking that same question every four minutes isn’t going to help. “No. How much times do I have to say that? And what am I even supposed to remember, anyways?”

 

“Where the Scrolls are located,” Grantaire says. He sounds frustrated. Nothing new. “Geez, I’ve told you this already. The Scrolls contain important information, and you’re supposed to know how to find them and destroy them.”

 

“Why do they even exist if I need to destroy them, huh?” Enjolras can’t believe no one’s thought of that before. It’s like he’s the only smart one, at least out of the two of them.

 

Grantaire leans back in his chair and frowns. “That’s a good point.”

 

“And you’ve never bothered to ask your friends about this because…?”

 

Grantaire sighs. “There’s a few things I kind of forgot to mention. First, Atropos wrote all this down so she wouldn’t have to deal with the responsibility of knowing it. She does that. So the minute she wrote everything down, and cast the Scrolls away, she wiped her own memory. Her “great idea” was that if the demons wanted information, they’d leave her alone. Second, the Scrolls don’t just say how to kill me.”

 

Enjolras narrows his eyes, his hand pauses as he reaches for his mug. All of this war crap’s just getting even more confusing. What else could possibly be written?

 

“What else is in them?” Enjolras asks.

 

“Everything.” Grantaire pauses. “Well, everything Atropos knows. And everything Clotho knows. If the demons get their hands on the Scrolls, and they have you to decipher them, the entire universe could collapse. Chaos will ensue, and I’m talking the apocalypse. We can’t let that happen, right? That isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”

 

This still doesn’t make much sense, but Enjolras will make do with what he has.

 

“But why did they-“ He pauses, eyes narrowed. There’s something missing in Grantaire’s story. “Isn’t there a third Fate?”

 

A shadow seems to pass over their isolated corner of the Musain, and something wild and dark burns in Grantaire’s eyes for a split second. He doesn’t look too happy. Maybe Enjolras shouldn’t have mentioned that.

 

“Lachesis,” Grantaire says. His voice is seductively rough, even though he probably isn’t intending for that. Enjolras shifts uncomfortably in his chair. In a flash, Grantaire’s demeanor changes, and he shrugs and leans back in his chair. “You’re right. There are three Fates. But we don’t talk about her.”

 

Enjolras decides to test his luck. “Why not?”

 

"Do you want to hear the whole story?"

 

Enjolras nods.

 

“Lachesis used to spin the thread of life,” Grantaire says. He’s much calmer now. “Well, that was Clotho’s job, but Lachesis would determine how long a person lived, and then Atropos would say how they’d die. That’s how they worked. They each had their own job, three components of human life working together.”

 

“Why did you say “used to”?” Enjolras asks.

 

Grantaire taps his fingers on the edge of the table. “Her job belongs to Atropos now.”

 

“But why?” Enjolras presses.

 

“Lachesis was different.” Grantaire pauses. Enjolras wonders if maybe he brought back too many bad memories. Unless… they’re good memories. Enjolras can’t decide which he prefers. “She mingled with the mortals. She loved humanity.” Grantaire’s eyes go unnervingly dark. “Maybe too much.”

 

Enjolras leans forward. “What do you mean?”

 

“Atropos and Clotho didn’t approve of her,” Grantaire says. “They always said she was too much trouble, that she didn’t take her job seriously. And that’s true, I guess. She was a bit too dark. A bit too fascinated with human mortality.”

 

“And she loved humanity?” Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

 

Grantaire nods, suddenly solemn. “She loved humanity. Well. She loved the _idea_ of humanity, of mortality. She loved the power that came with her job. She could end a life in a second.

 

And she used to, sometimes. She’d sit somewhere crowded, and kill whoever passed her in gruesome, twisted ways. All because she enjoyed seeing the light leave their eyes. She read books on death. She spread plagues, because she loved studying human behaviour when they died at alarming rates. She wasn’t a bad person, Enjolras. I need you to understand that. But she was just too fascinated – too obsessed – with human mortality that it corrupted her.

 

And besides, she was stealing Atropos’ job, and they were supposed to be balanced. So of course, Atropos had to do something. She conspired with Clotho, and they banished her. There is a way to bring her back, though. It’s written in the Scrolls, I’m positive.”  


Enjolras knows what Grantaire’s hinting at. He wants to bring Lachesis backs, although Enjolras can’t exactly pinpoint why. If she was so fascinated with death, what good could she possibly do? What did she have that Grantaire doesn’t?

 

“And if she was brought back, how could she help us?” Enjolras asks.

 

“She’s powerful. And we need all the power we can get, Enjolras.”

 

Enjolras nods to himself. Whenever they’ll get the Scrolls, he’ll bring her back. If Grantaire says they need her power, there’s no point arguing otherwise. It’s not that Enjolras thinks they don’t. He just isn’t even sure if Lachesis would be willing to help them, and at what cost. She doesn’t sound too pleasant to him.

 

He opens his book again, glad he finally has a chance to read, when Grantaire decides to speak up again.

 

“That’s not the only reason they banished her,” he says.

 

Enjolras looks up. “Why else?”

 

"She loved the idea of humanity, but she also loved a human. He wasn’t anyone special; just a common farmer. But he wasn’t afraid of death. And she became obsessed with him. Her obsession turned to love, and…” Grantaire shrugs. “You know what happened next. We’re not exactly supposed to fall in love with mortals. But she did. And I guess Atropos just wasn’t okay with that.”

 

Something about that makes Enjolras a little sad. He doesn't really know why. He doesn’t pity Lachesis, even though she might not be the horrible entity Enjolras thinks she is. And it’s not like he pities the farmer, either – Grantaire never said anything about him returning her love. So why is he sad?

 

_We’re not exactly supposed to fall in love with mortals._

_Atropos just wasn’t okay with that._

Enjolras glances back down at his book. He’s not ready to think about that. He’ll never be ready to think about that, because it isn’t even something he should be thinking about. There’s no point. It’d be worthless, anyways. They’ve only known each other for half a year. Isn’t that too soon?

 

But he can’t help wondering what the consequences would be if Grantaire fell in love. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're getting to the good enjoltaire stuff... 
> 
> I'm open for questions on [ tumblr ](https://epo-nine.tumblr.com)!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to add more to this chapter, but then... well, it turned out kind of long. Thank you to everyone who's reading this, I love you all! <3   
> This one goes out to my friend Mirela, who's excitement about this fic keeps me motivated. :)

Tonight, Enjolras dreams of parchment and black ink. He dreams of golden string and rivers of blood. He dreams of old books and broken rules.

 

He dreams of Lachesis.

 

-

 

Enjolras wakes up, feeling like he’s on fire. He throws the blanket off and sits up, eyes wide and alert. He feels… different. Like he isn’t really himself. And then there’s that horrible burning, crawling through his skin and setting his veins ablaze.

 

It’s overwhelming. He feels like he’s going to pass out.

 

“You all right?”

 

Grantaire’s awake. Enjolras turns his head to look, but instead collapses on him. The burning sensation starts to go away, leaving behind only the tiniest bit of warmth. It’s pleasant, and Enjolras could fall asleep, if he wasn’t so worried.

 

“Are you better?” Grantaire asks. His arms are draped over Enjolras, holding him intimately close. They’re nose-to-nose.

 

“Yes,” Enjolras says. “What did you do?”

 

Grantaire shrugs. “Touched you. I balance out the heat.”

 

That makes sense, in some strange way. Lots of weird things make sense to Enjolras, and he doesn’t even think about it anymore.

 

“What was that?” He asks.

 

“Nothing important.” Grantaire shifts so he can adjust his pillow. He’s still holding Enjolras. “That’s going to happen sometimes, and there isn’t really anything I can do about it. Except for what I’m doing now. It’s your body reliving your temporary death, Enjolras.

 

Sometimes, souls that don’t move on – ghosts – relive their deaths. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s still considerably common. And because I brought you back, your body’s doing the same thing. It’ll hurt like hell. And it’ll probably last for a while, if not forever.”

 

Enjolras sighs. Just his luck. “That’s great.”

 

Grantaire shrugs. "It's manageable. You’ll survive.”

 

"I'm not so sure," Enjolras mutters.

 

“Hey. Enj. Look at me.” Grantaire grabs Enjolras’ face and forces him to make eye contact. His breath goes still, his heart pounds. God. He never knows what Grantaire’s going to do, and that unpredictability excites him more than it should. (Well, what would Enjolras know? He’s never liked anyone before.) “There are always people who have it worse than you.”

 

Enjolras almost bursts into laughter. He wasn’t expecting that, and yet it was so obvious. Grantaire’s so wildly unpredictable, and yet incredibly obvious. Enjolras shouldn’t have expected him to say something romantic. But his hopes have always gotten to him before logic, so why should that change now?

 

“You mean like everyone who’s dying now,” Enjolras says. “How do you even do that? You can’t be in millions of places at the same time.”

 

Grantaire taps the side of his head. “It’s a secret.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything, and neither does Grantaire. They just lay there, looking at each other with soft, contemplative expressions. It happens a lot, lately. Enjolras wonders if it means anything. If maybe they’re becoming something more. But he doesn’t want to get his hopes up, because that never works for anyone. How can his expectations get crushed if he never had any in the first place? It’s a smart plan.

 

Well. It would be.

 

But there’s something about Grantaire Enjolras can’t stop thinking about, something in his eyes he can’t stop looking at, something in his touch he can’t stop wanting. And it’s be too hard _not_ to think about the possibility of something more. It’d be like telling a starving man not to think of food.

 

Impossible.

 

And Enjolras is, if he’s being entirely honest, okay with that.

 

Grantaire moves his arms down and wraps them tighter around Enjolras’ waist. It’s almost like he’s saying, “don’t go.”

 

_Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere._

“You look tired,” Grantaire says. “Are you?”

 

Enjolras is almost surprised to hear his voice. “I guess. I don’t know. I can’t tell.”

 

Grantaire looks confused by that, but Enjolras didn’t expect anything else. “Then why don’t you go to sleep?”

 

“Okay,” Enjolras says. There isn’t really a point in arguing over this.

 

He starts to roll over, but Grantaire’s hold on him only gets tighter. When Enjolras looks up at him, Grantaire doesn’t seem too happy.

 

“Where are you going?” He asks. There’s something authoritative in his voice. It isn’t a question. It’s a command.

 

(The way Grantaire talks, and the thought of him constantly using that voice and talking control, does things to Enjolras that he’s never going to admit)

 

“Back to my side of the bed?”

 

Grantaire lets out a quiet, dismissive laugh and puts Enjolras back in his previous position. He’s right on top of Grantaire again, staring into his eyes. He doesn’t really understand what’s going on, but he’s not going to question it.

 

“You can sleep on me,” Grantaire says. Like it’s the most casual thing ever. Like it doesn’t have sexual connotations at all. “I don’t want that to happen to you again.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but he can’t help smiling. “It’s not going to happen again.”

 

“You don’t know that,” Grantaire scoffs.                      

 

That's true. Enjolras can't know for certain that it won't happen again, but what will he do if it happens when Grantaire’s not around? He can only hope it won’t.

 

“Okay,” Enjolras says.

 

Grantaire seems to relax a bit, and he loosens his grip on Enjolras. They don’t say anything. Enjolras feels like there’s something he needs to say, but he doesn’t know what. Or maybe he does know, but it isn’t the right time. He’s never sure anymore.

 

Enjolras falls asleep, and this time, he dreams of stolen kisses and whispered farewells.

 

~

 

Eponine is seventeen. She has one more year left in her hellhole of a house, and then she’s gone. Then she can go wherever she wants, do whatever she likes. But she can’t, not really. Se only has so much money, and it’s barely enough to pay for tuition. And she needs money to get an apartment, so she’ll be able to care for Gavroche. Which is why she got that job at Hucheloup’s bookstore.

 

While her friends (they’re not friends, not really – they just help pass the time) are out doing drugs and drinking alcohol and having sex, Eponine spends her nights shelving books and helping those regulars who prefer to browse when it’s quiet. She loves this tucked-away little bookstore – it’s one of the only good things in her life. Besides, Madame Hucheloup lets her stay and read when her shift’s over (and the free books are definitely a bonus).

 

“Any new arrivals?”

 

Eponine snaps out of her daze and looks up at old Mr. Hugo. Out of all the regulars she sees, he’s her absolute favourite. Mr. Hugo and his wife moved here from Ars-en-Re to help their daughter raise her baby a few weeks ago, and since then, Eponine hasn’t gone a single shift without seeing him.

 

“Well, it’s not exactly new.” Eponine reaches behind her to grab the latest addition to the bookstore. “It’s an old version of Cicero’s _Letters_. Madame Hucheloup told me it’s not up for sale yet, but…” She smiles. “I can always make an exception for you.”

 

Mr. Hugo returns her smile. “That’s very kind of you.”

 

Eponine slides the book across the desk. She watches as Mr. Hugo caresses its dust cover with gentle fingers, something nostalgic in his eyes. Eponine loves seeing people remember things that once made them happy. She hopes she’ll get that feeling one day, too.

 

“I used to study Cicero,” he says. “That’s how I met Claudia, you know. I stayed at the library after closing hours, and instead of trying to get me to leave, she sat and talked to me.”

 

“That’s nice,” Eponine says, and she means it.

 

Sometimes, all her pain seems to go away, but then it all comes back when she locks up the bookstore. At least she has those few hours. Some people don’t even get that.

 

"Isn't it?" Mr. Hugo reaches across the desk and pats Eponine’s hand. “I hope you find that too, Eponine. It’s a very magical thing.”

 

Eponine nods. She doesn't really know what to say to that. She doesn’t think it’s possible for anyone to ever love her, unless they don’t really know her. Maybe even then. Why would anyone love her? There isn’t a good reason.

 

“Um, the book… it’s-“ Eponine wasn’t exactly told a price, but she’s sure whatever she charges will be enough for Madame Hucheloup. “Uh, ten bucks.”

 

Mr. Hugo reaches into his tattered wallet and pulls out several bills. They add up to more than ten, so Eponine hands the extra bills back. But Mr. Hugo shakes his head.

 

“They’re for you,” he says. “Buy yourself something nice.”

 

“Thank you,” Eponine whispers.

 

She can’t remember a time someone was this kind to her. Her own parents don’t give her money, unless they’re out of alcohol (that never happens, but they still “always need more”). Why would Mr. Hugo, who barely knows her, willingly give her money? What has Eponine ever done to deserve it?

 

“You are very welcome, my dear. Have a wonderful evening.”

 

Eponine barely manages to reply before he’s gone. The bookstore suddenly feels so cold, so big and empty. Sighing, Eponine tucks her money in the back pocket of her jeans, and grabs a pile of books to shelve. It feels like barely any time has passed when she goes to get the rest of the books.

 

The bell on the desk rings.

 

Eponine wasn’t expecting anyone else to come so soon.

 

“You got rid of the Cicero book, huh?” There’s a sigh. “Damn. I was looking forward to reading that one.”

 

Eponine spins around. “Who-“ She pauses, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?”

 

The man shrugs. “Visiting you? And looking for something to read?”

 

“Grantaire.” Eponine puts her hands on her hips. She hopes one day she’ll be as tall as him, so then he won’t look nearly as intimidating. “You’re my imaginary friend. You can’t just come in here and look for a book or whatever.”

 

Grantaire frowns at her. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

 

“About what?” Eponine snorts.

 

She thinks she’s going delusional, having conversations with an imaginary friend she hasn’t seen in at least two years. She created him back when she needed an escape, but now the bookstore does the job. She hasn’t felt suicidal in a few months, anyways. Why would she suddenly need him back right now?

 

“I’m not imaginary.”

 

Grantaire’s taken to absentmindedly reading a book he found on the desk. Eponine slams it shut.

 

“That’s not possible,” she says. “I created you.”

 

Grantaire laughs, shaking his head. “God, you wish. Wait, no, maybe you don’t. Whatever the case, I’m-“

 

“I heard you.” Eponine sighs. Of course this would happen. Of course she’d try and convince herself she isn’t actually crazy.

 

Grantaire crosses his arms. “And what are you going to do about it?”

 

“I don’t know,” she hisses. “What can I do? I can’t just ignore you, because obviously that doesn’t work. My brain just doesn’t think it’s time to let go. So there isn’t anything I can do.”

 

“Eponine-“

 

Before Grantaire can finish his sentence, the doorbell chimes. Both Eponine and Grantaire look to see who’s here. Something doesn’t feel right. No one’s supposed to be coming now – the next regular Eponine’s expecting should still be at work.

 

It’s Babet.

 

Eponine’s probably met him a few times, but she only remembers him from a party Montparnasse took her to. He didn’t give her a good feeling then (none of Montparnasse’s friends do), and so she tries to avoid him. But what is he doing at her rundown bookstore, in the middle of the night? Doesn’t he have better things to do?

 

From where he's leaning against the desk, Grantaire gives her a worried glance. Not that Eponine cares. He’s just a figment of her imagination – he can’t help her, anyways. Not that she needs help. She’s perfectly capable of defending herself.

 

Babet pretends to browse the bookstore for a few minutes, obvious disinterest gracing his face. He flips through several Nora Roberts (he doesn’t really seem like the romance type – the fact that he’s even paying them any attention should be enough of a red flag), casting sly smiles in Eponine’s direction. Eponine feels a shiver run down her spine. Something definitely isn’t right.

 

“It’s Eponine, right?” He asks suddenly, placing the books back neatly on the shelf and making his way over. His boots thunder with every step. There's something menacingly predatory in his smile.

 

Eponine nervously taps her fingers on the desk. “Why does it matter to you?”

 

“We met before, at one of Monty’s parties.” Babet frowns. “Don’t you remember me?”

 

Eponine does remember him. He was the only one who greeted her with a tight handshake instead of an awkward hug. He was also the only one who tried to spark a conversation with her.

 

“Yeah.” Eponine stiffens. She wishes she wasn’t alone with him.

 

Babet leans forward and rests an arm on the desk. He’s wearing an expensive watch, and Eponine has no doubts he stole it. “Monty’s been looking for you.”

 

“That’s nice,” Eponine says. She pretends to be busy with sorting files, but she’s really just moving blank papers from one pile to another. “Tell him I’m working.”

 

“He knows you’re working.”

 

Eponine’s head snaps up. Her heart starts pounding. She really, really needs to get away. “Then why is he-“

 

“Maybe.” Babet reaches forward and lightly brushes his fingers over Eponine’s forearm. She’s too scared to do anything. Too frozen. “Maybe we could go grab a drink. Just the two of us.”

 

Eponine takes a sharp breath. “Um, I don’t know. I’m kind of busy.”

 

Babet’s still creepily stroking her wrist. “Well, after your shift, then. When do you get off? I know a good bar-“

 

“I don’t… I don’t know if that’s really a good idea.” Eponine glances at Grantaire, who’s still there. If he’s real, Babet would’ve noticed him by now. She desperately wishes he isn’t just imaginary. “I need to… I have school tomorrow, I can’t-“

 

“I’ll make sure you get home.”

 

Eponine’s eyes go wide. That’s it. That’s why he’s here. He isn’t interested in books – he wants _her._ He knows she’s dating (okay, maybe that isn’t the right word – it’s too casual) Montparnasse, so why would he even try and get her? Eponine knows that she’s putting herself in danger by hanging out with Montparnasse and his crowd, but she’s fully capable of defending herself.

 

She never thought one of his friends would attempt this. But maybe her expectations were too high.

 

“I-“

 

Babet’s grip on her wrist tightens. He won’t take no as an answer, then. “Come on, Eponine. I’ll be good to you.”

 

“I don’t-“ But Eponine can’t finish her sentence. Her words get caught in her throat. She always thought this would go a different way, that she’d never find herself in such a situation.

 

Before Eponine can even try and escape, Babet places a finger on her lips, and wraps his other arm tight around her waist. He forcibly pulls her closer, until she feels the edge of the desk cut to her bones. She’s too terrified to attempt anything. He leans in closer. Eponine can barely breathe. He’s going to kiss her-

 

“Hey.”

 

Both Eponine and Babet blink in surprise. They hadn’t been expecting someone else. There’s a hand on Babet’s shoulder, and he turns to see who it is, irritated.

 

Eponine gasps, drawing in a sharp breath. She hadn’t been expecting it to be Grantaire, standing there in all his glory. His jacket (real leather – Eponine still wants one of those) and that wildness in his eyes make him seem rather threatening, but he still manages to look like the most casual person on earth. No. Not person. Imaginary friend, who apparently isn’t imaginary.

 

Eponine’s head is swimming. Has she gone insane? Is this what her life’s become? She feels sick.

 

“I don’t think she wants to be kissed,” Grantaire continues.

 

He seems totally unfazed by Babet’s menacing glares. Eponine feels like her ribs are going to crack – he’s definitely mad, and Grantaire’s going to get beat up, and she’s still going to get assaulted. That doesn’t seem to make sense. Maybe Eponine just needs time to process everything.

 

“Fuck off,” Babet growls.

 

Grantaire waves his hand dismissively. “Nah, rather not. What’s the fun in that?”

 

Babet narrows his eyes. He’s brewing a dangerous fire. “Who the hell are you?”

 

There’s a long, dreadful pause. The air seems to grow still and cold. Grantaire’s eyes, usually mysterious and warm, have turned to icy stone. Eponine’s almost too scared to breathe.

 

“I don’t think that’s the right question to be asking,” Grantaire says. “Wouldn’t you rather find out what I’m capable of?”

 

In an instant, Babet has one hand on Grantaire’s throat, and the other holding up a knife. His pupils are large, dark, bloodthirsty. He looks like he’s about to kill, and Eponine’s pretty sure that’s his plan. Grantaire, on the other hand, is looking at Babet like he’s the most amusing child he’s ever seen. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s either going to get stabbed or choked to death.

 

“You?” Babet chuckles. “You can’t be capable of much. I’ve seen people like you.”

 

Grantaire raises an immaculate eyebrow. “Oh really?”

 

“You’re all the same,” Babet sneers. His lips turn up in a snarl. Eponine could escape now. She could run away and never look back. But something’s keeping her there. And she’s still so scared. “You come up to men like me – real men – with your skinny jeans and bullshit threats, and expect us to run away scared. But guess what? We never are.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything to that. Maybe he realizes what he’s gotten himself into. But then, with a curious expression on his face, he looks over at the knife against his throat.

 

“You planning on doing something with that?” He asks.

 

Eponine shakes her head to herself. _Elmer Fudd’s going to get you this time, Bugs. Stop playing games._

 

Babet presses the tip of the knife into his skin. Eponine can’t look. She’s seen countless people get hurt in her father’s hands, but she can’t see the man who’s been there for her die. She wants to help, but she doesn’t know how.

 

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Babet laughs. It comes out more like a bark. Hollow. Savage. “You think you’re going to be a hero, and I’m going to let you go. But you’re wrong. This knife here? I’m going to slit your throat with it. And the girl? Oh, you won’t be able to help her then. You should be scared. I’ve ended countless lives with this knife. And you’re next.”

 

Grantaire laughs. He throws his head back and laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Babet doesn’t know how to respond – confusion clouds his eyes. Eponine doesn’t know what to think of this, either. What’s so funny?

 

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says, still laughing. He shakes his head. “It’s just… can I tell you a secret? It wasn’t you who ended those people’s lives. It was me.”

 

Babet frowns. “What?”

 

“I said-“

 

“You think you can play games with me, mouse?” Babet presses the knife further. It doesn’t do anything. Grantaire just gives him an unimpressed look. “I’m going to-“

 

But he doesn’t finish his sentence. Still staring at Babet with those cold eyes, Grantaire slowly lowers the knife, and then he carefully pries his hand away from his throat. Babet tries to fight back, but it doesn’t work.

 

Eponine wants to leave, but she just can’t. She needs to know what’s going to happen next. She needs to know that Grantaire’s going to be all right.

 

“I don’t think you understand what I’m capable of,” Grantaire says. There’s something frightening about him now.

 

Babet narrows his eyes and scowls. “And I don’t think you realize what _I’m_ capable of. I can snap your neck-“

 

“I’d like to see you try,” Grantaire scoffs.

 

Without warning, Babet growls and lunges forward – but Grantaire suddenly grabs his shirt collar, and with a rather careless toss, sends him crashing into the bookstore’s brick wall. He lands just outside, in a dark alleyway. Eponine gapes at the hole in the wall, at the bricks littering the ground, and then at Grantaire. How strong does he have to be to do that?

 

_He doesn’t even look like he put effort into that. Who is he really?_

Before Babet can even get up – or realize what just happened – Grantaire has him pinned against the other wall, held up at least a foot above the ground. His eyes are wide.

 

“When your time comes,” Grantaire says, his voice low and menacing. He tilts Babet’s head down so he’s forced to make eye contact. Grantaire’s smile is dark. “Look for me. I’ll be waiting for you.”

 

He thuds Babet’s head against the wall for good measure, and watches contentedly as his body goes limp. He’s still breathing, though. Grantaire turns back to look at Eponine, and her heart beats even faster. Oh, god. What does he want now? What’s he going to do with her?

 

“Eponine-“

 

But Eponine doesn’t stay long enough to hear him out. She grabs her keys, awkwardly shoves her phone in her pocket, and runs away. She runs until she can’t run anymore, and then she simply finds a crowded café and sinks into a chair at the back, sobbing into her hands. She doesn’t know what just happened, and she’s not entirely sure she wants to know.

 

Eponine doesn’t see Grantaire (or Babet, for that matter) ever again. Well. She doesn’t expect to.

 

~

 

**My friends are getting suspicious.**

Cosette doesn’t really expect Tholomyes to text her back. It’s two in the morning, but she hasn’t been able to sleep, and she needs to vent to someone. Marius and Eponine said she could talk to them, but she feels bad waking them up. Besides, she knows Eponine’s been facing her own demons lately, and it wouldn’t exactly be the nicest thing to hand her all of Cosette’s problems, too.

 

So that’s why she fires off a text to Tholomyes, the father she met twice. She still hasn’t told her actual father about this. She doesn’t know if she wants to yet.

 

_What about?_

Cosette blinks in surprise at her phone. She sits upright, careful not to disturb Eponine and Marius.

 

**You.**

**Well, they don’t know about you. I haven’t told them. But they think something’s going on.**

_And why do they think that?_

**I don’t know. I never tell them I’m going off to meet someone.**

Cosette frowns.

 

**Why are you even texting me, it’s two in the morning.**

_You wanted to talk. That’s what I’m here for._

**Don’t you make up early?**

_Tomorrow’s Saturday, Cosette. I don’t work on weekends._

Oh. Right. How could Cosette possibly forget that? Eponine’s been singing about the week being over the whole day.

 

**I forgot.**

_Maybe you should talk to them._

**Who?**

_Your friends. Ask them why they’re suspicious._

_Or you could just always tell them._

**I don’t know. I don’t know how they’ll react.**

_They’ll probably understand. They’re good friends, right?_

**Yeah.**

_So, they’ll respect your decisions. And hopefully they’ll stop being suspicious._

**Do you normally give advice to people in the middle of the night?**

_Do you normally talk to people about your friends in the middle of the night?_

Cosette bites her tongue, holding back a laugh. She still isn’t sure what she thinks of Tholomyes – sure, he’s an asshole for leaving her mom, but he’s been really kind to her. Maybe he’s trying to own up to his mistakes. Maybe he wants to start over.

 

Everyone deserves a second chance, and that includes her deadbeat birth father.

 

**Touché.**

_Does this keep you up at night, Cosette?_

**I guess. I just don’t want my friends to think badly of me.**

_They won’t think badly of you._

**You don’t even know them.**

_Well, from what you’ve told me they seem like good people. You can’t know until you tell them._

**I guess. Maybe I’ll tell them tomorrow. We’re all meeting up anyways.**

_Then you should get some sleep, so you won’t be too tired._

**I’m always tired. Life makes me tired.**

_Life is very tiring._

_Good night, Cosette._

Cosette smiles softly at her phone. She hopes Tholomyes is right, and they won’t give her shit for giving him a second chance. At least Eponine and Marius didn’t, so that’s something.

 

**Good night.**

~

 

“I’ll never get tired of looking at the stars.”

 

Enjolras and Grantaire are standing on Enjolras’ balcony, leaning against the (probably unstable) railing, staring out at a bright Paris. Enjolras loves the city at night – it’s when everything comes to life.

 

Enjolras nods and crosses his arms. He’s getting a bit cold. “But they’ve never changed. You’ve seen them for – what? – billions of years, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. “I mean, they’ve changed. There’s stars you can’t see anymore. Stars that once lit up the whole sky are now invisible. But it’s still… it’s so fascinating. It’s one of the most beautiful things in this world.”

 

“Haven’t you ever seen those stars? Like, explored the universe or whatever?”

 

Grantaire shrugs. “Nope.”

 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. He wasn’t expecting that. “And don’t you want to?”

 

Grantaire turns to face him, smiling that adorably soft smile of his. He gently ghosts his fingers along Enjolras’ face. This seems to be a thing, now. Enjolras doesn’t really know what to make of it.

 

“Why would I want to see the universe when you’re right here?”

 

Enjolras looks away. He’s definitely blushing – he feels that familiar heat in his cheeks. Why does Grantaire have to be this way? Why does he have to tease him, make his stomach turn upside down and his heart flutter? It isn’t fair.

 

“Maybe you want to see if there’s other life out there,” Enjolras says, trying to change the subject. “I’m sure aliens would get along with you just fine.”

 

Grantaire looks back at the stars and laughs. “You saying I’m an alien?”

 

“You might as well be.”

 

They’re silent for a while, standing side by side and looking out at the city. That seems to be a thing, too. They either talk a lot, or they don’t talk at all – there’s no in-between. Enjolras doesn’t mind, though. He likes having time to himself.

 

“It’s kind of cold out here,” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Says the guy who can’t feel the cold.”

 

“I’m just trying to think of you,” Grantaire says defensively. “Why don’t we head back inside and watch a movie or something?”

 

Enjolras slowly turns to look at him, unimpressed. “Are you asking me to go on a date with you?”

 

“It’s not a date if we aren’t actually leaving your place.” Grantaire puts his hands on his hips, like he’s trying to make a point. “Besides, I love movies. Movies are one of mankind’s greatest achievements.”

 

“Sexist,” Enjolras says.

 

“Sorry. They’re one of _humanity’s_ greatest achievements.” Grantaire pauses, waiting for an answer. “Well? What do you say?”

 

Enjolras leans his back against the railing and pretends to give it some thought. He’d never turn down an offer to go on a date with Grantaire. But tormenting him is kind of fun.

 

“I don’t know,” he drawls. “If it makes you happy, I guess we can see a movie. But you’re paying for tickets.”

 

Grantaire pauses. “You want to go see a movie? Like, in a cinema?”  


Enjolras rolls his eyes. “No, dumbass.”

 

“Just checking.”

 

Enjolras laughs quietly, and without another word, he drags Grantaire out of the apartment, and onto the crowded street.

 

-

 

“That was one hell of a good movie,” Grantaire says.

 

He’s still eating his popcorn, because he thought it would “distract him from the movie”. Enjolras finished his way before the movie even started, and so he had to eat from Grantaire’s the entire time. And for someone who doesn’t even need food, he seems to like his popcorn drowned in butter. It’s weird.

 

Enjolras gives him a curious look. “I didn’t know you were an action fan.”

 

“Are you kidding me?” Grantaire scoffs and shakes his head. “It’s like you don’t know me at all. Action movies are basically two hours of people killing other people. That’s, like, my favourite hobby.”

 

“That’s your job,” Enjolras says.

 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. It’s nice to see someone else do my dirty work for a change. I mean, it’s not like you’d ever kill everyone on my list for me. Because you’re not nice.”

 

“You do realize movies are fiction, right?” Enjolras places a hand on Grantaire’s chest and stops him from stepping onto a busy road. He never looks where’s he’s going, and it’s becoming a bit of an issue.

 

Grantaire crosses his arms. “Of course I know that. I’m not stupid.”

 

"You didn't make that very clear."

 

They continue along the crowded street, pushing past people lined up outside clubs and bars, until they get back to Enjolras’ apartment building. It’s rather quiet here. It’s nice. Enjolras likes the serenity, the stillness, but at the same time, he’s a bit unnerved. He doesn’t know what could be lurking in the dark, following them.

 

But then he looks over at Grantaire, holding the door open for him and basked in warm light, and he feels a little safer. Well, much more than a little. But he’ll never admit that.

 

“That wasn’t too bad,” Enjolras says, stepping inside.

 

Grantaire smiles and bumps his shoulder. “Pretty good for a first date, right?”

 

“You wish.” Enjolras rolls his eyes. He looks back to make sure Grantaire’s following him. He is. “I’m too good for you.”

 

“You’re too mortal for me,” Grantaire corrects. “I have a type.”

 

When they finally go to sleep (it's almost one in the morning), Enjolras allows himself to wonder what it’d be like to actually date Grantaire. What would they do? Where would they go? Would they tell his friends?

 

It’s a comforting thought. But it’s not exactly one he wants to dwell on. So instead, Enjolras falls asleep to the familiar rhythm of Grantaire’s breaths, and he dreams of what could be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY'LL GET TOGETHER SOON I PROMISE
> 
> I'm open for questions! Feel free to send me an ask on [ tumblr ](http://epo-nine.tumblr.com)!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehh... this one's kind of long. Sorry. Thank you to everyone who's still reading this fic, and to those who take the time to leave kudos and comments! I appreciate every single one of you <3  
> This chapter goes out to my pal Mirela, who recognized Bugs and Daffy from the Looney Tunes comic I drew :)

It’s early June. Enjolras looks outside his window, and he wonders how time passed so quickly. He barely remembers anything from before the protest. How had his year gone? What was he planning for the summer?

 

It doesn’t seem to matter, though. Everything before Grantaire seems too distant to matter.

 

“You okay?”

 

Enjolras turns around and nods at Combeferre, who’s leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed.

 

“Just thinking,” Enjolras says.

 

“Just thinking,” Combeferre echoes. “You’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”

 

Enjolras shrugs. “There’s lots to think about.”

 

Combeferre doesn’t say anything for a while, and Enjolras almost believes he’s left.

 

“And is one of those things Grantaire?”

 

Enjolras stares at Combeferre. “What? Why would I think about him? There’s nothing to think about. I mean, unless he… did he tell you things he hasn’t told me?”

 

“Enjolras.” Combeferre sighs. It’s obvious he’s caught onto something. “I rarely talk to Grantaire.”

 

“Oh. Well I-“

 

“Just tell me what’s going on,” Combeferre says.

 

He sits down on the edge of Enjolras’ bed and pats the empty space next to him. Clearly, “no” isn’t an answer. Combeferre wants to talk about something, and Enjolras thinks he knows what. Well. He can’t really know until they actually talk.

 

“Nothing’s going on.” Enjolras isn’t lying, technically. Sure, he’s sleeping with Grantaire, but that’s not really Combeferre’s business. “I swear.”

 

Combeferre doesn’t look like he believes him. But then again, no one does these days. “What’s up with you and Grantaire?”

 

“Nothing,” Enjolras says defensively.

 

_Does Combeferre know? How would he know? He can’t._

Combeferre rolls his eyes and scoffs. “You know I’ll support you no matter what. I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”

 

“I-“ Enjolras narrows his eyes. “What?”

 

“You and Grantaire,” Combeferre says. “It’s obvious. I don’t understand why you’d be trying to hide it from us, but-“

 

Enjolras crosses his arms, furious. What gives Combeferre the right to say it’s “obvious”?

 

“We’re friends. Nothing more. Never have been, never will be. Okay? Okay. We’re not dating, we’re not-“ Enjolras shakes his head. He can’t even bring himself to think about that. “And besides, it shouldn’t be “obvious” to you because it’s not obvious. We’re not… we’re not. So don’t even _think_ we are.”

 

Combeferre looks completely unfazed. “Very believable.”

 

“What, do you want me to say that we’re together?”

 

Combeferre shrugs. “I mean, if you are, you shouldn’t feel like you need to hide it from us.”

 

“But that’s exactly my point!” Enjolras feels like smashing something, but he isn’t going to. He has to try and remain calm. “We’re not. Got it?”

 

“Geez,” Combeferre mutters.

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Why does everyone think we’re dating, or something? Yesterday Cosette asked when we’re having our next date, and then Courf told me that we could sleep in my room the next time we host a Les Amis sleepover-“

 

“I don’t know why they said that,” Combeferre says. “But I can tell you that something’s changed. I don’t know how, just… your dynamic, maybe. The way you two act – anyone would think you’re dating. I guess that’s a good thing, though.”

 

Enjolras scoffs. “How is everyone thinking we’re dating a good thing?”

 

“I don’t know.” Combeferre shrugs. He doesn’t really have a point, and he’s well aware that Enjolras knows. “I don’t know, Enjolras.”

 

Enjolras sits down beside Combeferre and buries his face in his hands. He doesn’t think it’s a good thing, but he can’t help but wonder what they’re doing that gives everyone reason to think they’re dating. What if they’re practically a couple, but they just don’t know it?

 

Enjolras sighs. He has too many questions, and there aren’t enough answers.

 

~

 

Cosette enters the Musain on a fine Tuesday afternoon, expecting to have some time to herself, but instead finds Les Amis crowded around a large table. They’re hunched over a bunch of papers, and Enjolras is biting his pen like he’s intending to break it.

 

Cosette slowly takes off her coat and scarf as she approaches the table, and only then does she notice Grantaire. He’s standing beside Enjolras, one arm thrown across the back of his chair. He looks focused on the papers, too.

 

“Oh, finally!” Musichetta cries, running over to Cosette. “I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour. Why didn’t you pick up?”

 

“I-“ Cosette sheepishly rubs the back of her neck. “I forgot my phone at home. Sorry.”

 

Musichetta waves her hand in dismissal. “That’s okay. We just got some important info from Grantaire’s girlfriend.”

 

“Enjolras didn’t give me this,” Grantaire says, deadpan.

 

Enjolras briefly looks up from the papers to glare at Grantaire. Cosette, however, can’t help but notice the subtle blush dusting his cheeks. Obviously, he has feelings, but Cosette won’t press him further. She knows what she needs to know.

 

“Okay, sorry, I was joking.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Hilarious.”

 

“What’s the important information?” Cosette asks, crossing her arms. She leans against Eponine’s chair and tries to see the papers, but she can’t tell what’s on them.

 

“Atropos managed to get blueprints of the base the angels have in Paris,” Grantaire says, brandishing several papers. “The rest is just everything she knows about their mission. It’s less important.”

 

“So we can just attack them, right?” Combeferre asks. “And they wouldn’t know?”

 

Grantaire grimaces. “Well, it’s not that easy. Angels can’t be killed by just anything – it has to be something holy. A regular fork won’t do the trick, but if you get one blessed by a priest, you’re good to go. And it wouldn’t be smart to just go in and attack them, anyways. Angels _are_ intelligent beings.”

 

“So what should we do?”

 

Grantaire sighs. “Nothing, for now. I’ll go with Enj to get some holy weapons, but we shouldn’t attack. They don’t even know I’m involved yet – all they know is that Enjolras is aware of everything. As long as they don’t do anything to us, there’s no point to do anything to them.”

 

Enjolras looks incredibly frustrated. “But-“

 

“You don’t get a say in this,” Grantaire says, shaking his head.

 

Instead of arguing, Enjolras middle-fingers him and goes back to studying the papers. Cosette doesn’t really understand why they’re so important, but that doesn’t matter. She didn’t come here to look at blueprints; she came here to tell them about Tholomyes.

 

“Um, guys,” Cosette says, awkwardly clearing her throat.

 

Everyone turns to look at her, like they aren’t just been in the middle of something else. Even Enjolras, who barely cared enough to acknowledge Grantaire’s joke, blinks at her expectantly.

 

“There’s something I want – need, sorry – to tell you guys,” she continues.

 

Joly’s eyes go wide. “Please don’t say it’s cancer. Is it cancer? It’s cancer. You’re sick. Stage four? Oh my god, you’re going to die, you are going to die and you came here to say your final goodbyes because you’re dying, right now… oh, this is so sad, Cosette-“

 

“I met my birth father,” Cosette blurts. She takes a deep breath. This isn’t so bad. “A few weeks ago. He… um, he contacted me. And, yes, I’m sure he’s actually my birth father. I just thought you should know.”

 

No one says anything for a while. They’re all staring at Cosette in shock, mouths open and eyes wide. Eponine and Marius are the only ones who look unfazed, apart from Grantaire. But he’s weird. Cosette didn’t expect him to be shocked.

 

“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” Feuilly asks. He doesn’t sound mad.

 

Cosette shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t even know what I was going to do about it. But we meet up sometimes, and we talk. I’m willing to give him a second chance.”

 

"And who's your birth father?" Courfeyrac asks.

 

“Felix Tholomyes,” Cosette says. “He’s the CEO of some publishing house.”

 

Musichetta lightly taps her arm, smiling supportively. “That’s great, honey. As long as you’re happy with this, so are we.”

 

Cosette lets out a breath of relief. She hated keeping this a secret from her friends, and she’s so glad they finally know. Maybe, if Tholomyes is okay with it, they can meet him someday. She’d like that. But even with everyone’s support, and their gentle smiles, there’s still something off.

 

It’s Grantaire, as always.

 

His eyes are narrowed, and he’s frowning at the table. He’s obviously thinking about something, but what? Cosette feels uneasy. Does he know something about Tholomyes that she doesn’t know?

 

“Tholomyes,” Grantaire whispers. “I swear I’ve heard that name before.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes, for what must be his fiftieth time today. “I wonder why. It’s a surname, Grantaire. Most people have those.”

 

“I know, but this…” Grantaire shakes his head. “This feels different. I don’t know.”

 

Cosette doesn't want to know what about this feels different. She’s already unnerved – she doesn’t need to know what’s wrong. But she can’t help but wonder why the name sounds familiar.

 

~

 

Even though his parents’ estate is more than an hour away from Paris, the church they used to go to is located in the city center. Enjolras used to be excited for Sundays, because after church, his mother took him for ice cream and they’d go see a new historic site. As he drives up to the church, he smiles fondly at the ice cream shop across the street.

 

“Good memories?” Grantaire asks.

 

Enjolras shrugs. “Not in church. After church? Loads of them. My mom used to take me for ice cream.”

 

“Over there?” Grantaire follows his gaze, smiling softly.

 

Enjolras nods as he gets out of the car. The church is already starting to empty out, which is great – it means less people there, and that the priest is probably available. The quicker they do this, the better.

 

“We can go there after, if you want,” Grantaire suggests.

 

Enjolras smiles. “I’d like that. But you’re staying here.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“In case I see people I know,” Enjolras says. “I don’t want to have to explain who you are and what we’re doing there, and I definitely don’t want to hear any more speeches about how being gay is a sin. And trust me, anyone who knows me is going to give us crap.”

 

“But what would you tell them, if they asked who I am?” Grantaire smirks suggestively. “That I’m your foreign lover? Or maybe that I’m a national hero?”

 

“That you’re my parole officer,” Enjolras says, deadpan.

 

Before Grantaire can say anything else, Enjolras goes inside the church. It’s much larger than he remembers – but then again, he hasn’t been here in years. There’s still a lot of people inside, talking to friends or neighbours or random strangers. Enjolras sighs in relief. Thankfully, he doesn’t recognize anyone – and no one seems to recognize him, either.

 

The priest is at the edge of the crowd, talking to a young woman who’s carrying a cardboard box. Enjolras starts making his way over-

 

“Julian?”

 

His eyes go wide. _Oh crap._ Slowly, Enjolras turns around, and comes face-to-face with his parents. His breath catches in his throat. He hoped they had already left, but apparently they’re still here.

 

They haven’t changed much since the last time Enjolras saw them. His mother seems a little older, or perhaps she’s just tired. Her hair still glows like the sun, and her blue eyes still shine with youthfulness. She’s quite possibly the most beautiful woman Enjolras has ever known (and that’s not just because everyone says he looks like her). His father, on the other hand, is still sporting that permanent frown. Some things never change.

 

As he awkwardly stands there, Enjolras is suddenly very aware of what he’s wearing: a pair of ripped skinny jeans and an old Fall Out Boy shirt. If he ever wore something like that as a kid, he definitely would’ve been beaten.

 

“Julian, is that really you?” His mother clasps her hands together and smiles. “It’s been so long. Oh, how you’ve grown. You’re such a handsome young man. Isn’t he, Claude?”

 

Enjolras’ father gives him a stony once-over. “Are you still gay?”

 

“Hello to you, too.” Enjolras rolls his eyes.

 

“Well?” His father narrows his dull eyes. “You haven’t answered my question.”

 

“Yes, I’m still gay.” Enjolras can’t believe he’s even having this conversation. And with his father, of all people.

 

His mother sighs. “Dear, what brings you here today? We never see you.”

 

“I’m-“ Enjolras considers telling them that he’s here to collect weapons to kill angels, but he doesn’t want them to think he’s gone insane. “I’m here for business.”

 

That seems to catch his father’s interest. “Business? Of what kind?”

 

“My friends and I are trying to bring faith to those who can’t attend church,” Enjolras lies. Eponine would die if she ever heard that.

 

His father doesn’t look like he believes him. “You told us you’re an atheist.”

 

“I changed my mind.” Another lie. It’s so easy, honestly. To lie to his parents. “It’s a part of who I am.”

 

“But then you can’t be-“

 

“The Lord created all people equally, Claude.” His mother gives his father a reprimanding glare, and when she turns back to Enjolras, her expression is soft again. “That’s wonderful, Julian. I always said you were destined for great things.”

 

_You have no idea._

“I’m glad I have your support,” Enjolras says. “Now, I need to talk with the priest, so if you wouldn’t mind-“

 

“Wait,” his mother blurts. “Julian, it’s been so long. I... well, never mind. I’m just glad we got to see you again.”

 

Enjolras smiles. He misses his mother, he’ll admit that. “Me too.”

 

His mother looks like she wants to give him a hug, but then she pulls her arms back and heads out. Casting him one last glare, his father follows suit. Enjolras sighs in relief and heads over to the priest, glad that they’re finally gone.

 

The priest – Father Victor – looks exactly the same. He hasn’t changed at all, which is great, because Enjolras could barely recognize him as he is.

 

“Julian Enjolras?” Father Victor asks, his mouth breaking into a wide smile.

 

Enjolras nods. “That’s me.”

 

“Where have you been, my boy?” Father Victor places a warm hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. It feels weird. Or maybe he’s just gotten so used to Grantaire’s cold touch.

 

“Travelling,” Enjolras lies. He feels kind of bad, flat-out lying to a priest (and Father Victor, of all priests – he was the only one who told Enjolras, secretly, that it was okay to be gay). But the weapons matter more right now.

 

Father Victor looks surprised. “Travelling? Your parents didn’t tell me anything about that.”

 

“Yeah, I haven’t talked to them in a few years. They wouldn’t know.”

 

“What do you when you’re travelling?” Father Victor looks around, and then lowers his voice. “Meeting handsome men, eh?”

 

Enjolras laughs and shakes his head. “No, unfortunately.”

 

“Ah, that’s good, too. Loyalty is a virtue. Do you have a boyfriend, Julian?”

 

“Uh.” Enjolras bites his lip. He doesn’t really know how to answer this. Should he count Grantaire as his boyfriend? Is that what they are? “N-no. Not yet.”

 

Father Victor chuckles. “All in due time. You must let me meet this man, Julian, when he is your boyfriend. Any man who has you is a lucky man indeed.”

 

“I’ll bring him in.” And this isn’t a lie. Enjolras loves Father Victor, and he’s pretty sure Grantaire would love him to. This was the guy who secretly took him to his first Pride as a teen, the guy who told him it was okay if he didn’t fit his parents’ image. He doesn’t know where he’d be without Father Victor. “Actually, I travel to spread faith. You know, to those who don’t have access to a church, or even a bible.”

 

Father Victor’s smile grows even wider. “My boy, what an excellent thing to do. Your parents should be very proud. But if you’re so busy travelling, what are you doing here?”

 

“I actually need your help,” Enjolras says. “You see, part of what I do – well, me and my friends – is give out resources. And recently, we’ve started running out. Do you happen to have any old bibles? And any crosses, perhaps?”

 

Father Victor nods and leads Enjolras to a small storage closet by the Sunday School room. It’s filled with boxes.

 

“We just got new deliveries this week,” Father Victor says. “A lot of the old bibles were getting torn, and they kept falling apart. And I think there’s-“ he pauses to search through an open box. “Yes, here it is. A month ago, one of the crosses in the nursery fell. It’s a little chipped. Do you mind?”

 

Enjolras shakes his head. “Not at all. Whatever we have will do just fine.”

 

“Excellent, my boy. Take whatever resources you need. Will you need help bringing everything out? Do you have a car?”

 

“Yes, I have a car. And some help would be greatly appreciated,” Enjolras says.

 

Father Victor helps him lift a box full of old bibles, and he carries another one, full of broken or old candlesticks, the cross resting on top. When they head back outside, Grantaire looks rather surprised to see Enjolras and Father Victor.

 

“Thank you, Father,” Enjolras says.

 

He opens the car door and places the two boxes and the cross inside, then turns to face Father Victor.

 

“Any time, my boy.” He pauses, and then looks at Grantaire with a curious expression. Then he leans in closer, his voice a quiet whisper. “Is this the man you were talking about?”

 

Enjolras glances at Grantaire, who looks really confused. “Yeah. This is him.”

 

Father Victor gives Enjolras a comforting pat on the shoulder, and then smiles warmly at Grantaire before heading back inside.

 

“Care to explain?” Grantaire asks, his arms crossed.

 

“Not really,” Enjolras says, leaning against the car. “But that was Father Victor. He’s a priest here.”

 

“You know him?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

 

“Obviously.”

 

Grantaire nods to himself. “And what was all that secret stuff you guys were saying about me?”

 

“Nothing important.” Enjolras tries to act casual. Grantaire can’t know what he told Father Victor. “I was just told him that I brought a friend, and he asked if you’re my friend. That’s all.”

 

“Sure,” Grantaire drawls. He probably doesn’t believe Enjolras – or maybe he does, and he’s just teasing. Both are equally likely. “Ice cream?”

 

~

 

“Something doesn’t feel right,” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes from where he’s leaning against the doorframe, brushing his teeth. He doesn’t understand what about Cosette’s birth father is bothering Grantaire so much, and he’s too tired to try and figure it out. If it really was that important, Grantaire would’ve figured it out by now.

 

“Mayhe woo shuh tah to Arupus.”

 

Grantaire blinks at him. He’s already lying on Enjolras’ (their?) bed, wearing one of Combeferre’s generously-lent pajama shirts. And he looks too good for such a time.

 

“I’m sorry, can you not talk when your mouth is full of toothpaste? Thank you.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and heads back to the bathroom. When he comes back, all the lights in his (their? Enjolras doesn’t know) room are off.

 

“Why did you turn the lights off?” He asks.

 

“Because it’s fun to see you trip,” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes as he climbs in bed. Luckily, he knows where everything is, so Grantaire will probably never see him trip.

 

“Maybe you should just talk to Atropos,” he suggests.

 

Grantaire holds an arm out. Sighing, Enjolras shuffles over until he can rest his head on Grantaire’s chest. They do this a lot now. Enjolras is starting to think he won’t be able to sleep without Grantaire’s comforting heartbeat, which is a ~~major~~ slight problem. Once Enjolras is comfortable, Grantaire wraps his free arm around his waist. Like always.

 

(Enjolras understands why Les Amis think they’re dating – he would, too)

 

“I don’t know how she can help,” Grantaire admits. “She’s not exactly my best source.”

 

Enjolras shrugs. “True. But still. I’d go and talk to her. It’s worth a shot.”

 

"If it'll make you happy," Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras wonders what Grantaire means by that, but he’s much too tired to try and figure it out, let alone ask. He has his theories, and that’s all that matters.

 

~

 

“Felix Tholomyes.”

 

Atropos doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge him. “What about him?”

 

“What do you know?”

 

Grantaire leans his back against the bridge, arms crossed. Atropos narrows her eyes and turns to face him. She’ll probably want an explanation, but she doesn’t need one. It’s not important for her to know everything – and besides, if this is really nothing, then it’d be useless to tell her.

 

“A few months ago, I believe, you reaped a Felix Tholomyes.” Atropos pauses. “Yes, it wasn’t too long ago.”

 

Grantaire’s eyes go wide. “Reaped?”

 

“He died from alcohol poisoning, remember?”

 

_What? But Cosette… he contacted her, he’s still alive, I couldn’t… something doesn’t make sense._

“You’re sure?” Grantaire presses.

 

“Yes.” Atropos gives him a scrutinising glare. “What’s this about?”

 

Grantaire runs a hand through his hair. “Nothing. It’s not… never mind, it’s not important. Thanks, Atropos.”

 

“What-“

 

Grantaire is gone before she can finish her sentence. He needs to find out why this Felix Tholomyes is still alive – unless, it isn’t him after all.

 

-

 

“You’re not going to like this,” Grantaire says, sitting down on Enjolras’ couch.

 

He bites his lip as he types _Felix Tholomyes_ in the search bar. God, he hopes it isn’t what he thinks it is.

 

“What? What are you doing on my laptop?”

 

Enjolras nudges Grantaire over and takes a seat beside him. He grabs the laptop out of his hands and frowns at the screen.

 

“What?” He asks.

 

Grantaire shakes his head. “I talked to Atropos today, like you suggested. And she told me that a few months ago, I reaped Felix Tholomyes.”

 

A dark shadow passes over Enjolras’ face. He looks unnerved by this, and frankly, he should be. It’s not exactly comforting to hear that your friend’s father, who she apparently met, is dead.

 

“There’s two possible explanations,” Grantaire says, taking the laptop back. “One, it’s not actually Tholomyes, but some guy impersonating him; or two, it’s not actually Tholomyes, but someone possessing his body.”

 

“What?” Enjolras asks, for the third time.

 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Here’s the thing about angels – they can’t possess living people. So they use dead bodies. Most of the time, it’s people from hundreds of years ago, people no one would recognize – but sometimes, they’ll possess someone who just died. Of course, it’d have to be someone no one knows is dead yet, but that isn’t too hard.”

 

“And demons? What about them?”

 

“Demons can only possess people who are vulnerable or weak. They’re not exactly strong themselves.” Grantaire looks back at the screen. “But that’s not the point. The point is that Cosette might be in danger, and the angels might be able to extract information out of her.”

 

Enjolras frowns. “I thought you said you had two theories?”

 

“I eliminated the first one,” Grantaire says.

 

“Why?”

 

Grantaire points at the article he pulled up: **Tips on Getting Your Novel Published from Expert Felix Tholomyes**. He doesn’t care much for the content – he cares about the date. _20 May 2017._

 

“That’s recent,” Enjolras says.

 

Grantaire nods. “Way too recent. If someone’s impersonating him, it’d be to have sex with young women, such as Cosette. They wouldn’t do it to give out tips on publishing. That just doesn’t make sense. Therefore, it has to be angelic possession.”

 

“I’m not so sure.” Enjolras narrows his eyes. Grantaire can practically see the gears in his head turning. “How do you know he’s dead?”

 

"Firstly, there's no online information about him from before February. This isn’t much of a lead, but angels do tend to turn their vessels into overnight successes. Besides, I remember reaping him.”

 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Do tell.”

 

“It was a dark and stormy night.” Grantaire laughs and shakes his head. “No, it was actually really cold, and there wasn’t any storm. Felix Tholomyes used to have a decent life. He went to university and graduated with a linguistics degree – not that he was ever planning on doing anything with it. He had a lot of friends, and enough girlfriends for two seasons of The Bachelor.

 

“But then – and I’m not exactly sure why this happened – his life started to go downhill. He found out his current girlfriend was pregnant-“

 

“Cosette’s mom,” Enjolras whispers. It’s pretty obvious he’s heard stories about her.

 

“-but he didn’t want a child, so he abandoned her,” Grantaire continues. “And after that, well… when I came to reap him, he was already an alcoholic, a drug dealer on the side, and he lived in an old trailer that smelled like cat urine. He’s very dead, Enjolras.”

 

Enjolras looks a little unsettled by this. “Do you remember everyone you reap?”

 

“Only those who stick out to me,” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras’ cheeks turn a little pink. He awkwardly clears his throat and looks away, almost like he’s embarrassed. But what is he embarrassed about?

 

"So what do we do?" Enjolras asks.

 

Grantaire holds his hand out. “We have to warn Cosette.”

 

~

 

Cosette feels weird. Well, out of place. Everyone who’s passed her in the last ten minutes looks like they’re late to an important meeting, or they’re calling their assistant about an important meeting. She’s not a businesswoman, and it feels incredibly strange to wait for Tholomyes here.

 

Even the Starbucks across the road feels like a conference room, which really sucks, because Cosette desperately needs caffeine. She checks her wristwatch and sighs.

 

_10:44._

They were supposed to meet fourteen minutes ago. Cosette’s just about to go grab some coffee when she hears a familiar voice.

 

“Cosette! I’m so sorry I’m late, I was held up in a meeting.”

 

Tholomyes is holding the door open, smiling at her. He fits in with the crowd around here – all dry-cleaned suits and polished shoes. Cosette shakes her head as she follows him inside.

 

“It’s okay,” she says.

 

“Right well-“ Tholomyes pauses to wave at someone as they head to the elevator. “Pierre, it’s good to see you! Feeling better, I hope?”

 

Cosette doesn’t catch Pierre’s response – she’s too busy admiring the building’s lobby, illuminated with crystal chandeliers and arched windows. It’s absolutely gorgeous in here. If Cosette was a businesswoman, this is the building she’d like to work at. Even the elevator, small as it is, looks rather elegant.

 

“Are those crystal buttons?” Cosette asks.

 

Tholomyes flashes her a smile as he presses _4_. “Quartz. I am a man of refined taste, Cosette.”

 

“So, who works here?” Cosette ghosts her hand across the elevator’s walls – soft and padded, like velvet. “Apart from you, of course.”

 

“No one else,” Tholomyes says. “This building is only used by my publishing house.”

 

Cosette’s eyes go wide. “No. Way. You have this whole place to yourself?”

 

Tholomyes chuckles. “I do share it with other employees, you know.”

 

“Right.” Cosette nods. “It was really nice of you to invite me here.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

 

The elevator doors open, and Tholomyes briskly leads Cosette down a red-carpeted hallway. The walls are covered in portraits and pictures of employees and best-sellers. Cosette barely has time to look at any of them – she does, however, manage to catch an oil painting of Tholomyes at what she assumes to be his desk. It’s rather nice.

 

Cosette wants to explore every room they pass. She sees an empty conference room, with large windows and leather chairs, and she wonders what it’d be like if Les Amis hosted meetings in a room like that. She sees another room filled with cardboard boxes, and wonders who’s lucky enough to land a job here.

 

“It’s a nice building, isn’t it?” Tholomyes asks, turning a corner.

 

Cosette nods, hurrying to catch up with him. “It’s gorgeous. I’d love to work here.”

 

Tholomyes glances at her over his shoulder, and slows down. “Next time we have a job opening, I’ll let you know.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

At the very end of the hallway, Cosette notices a set of polished white doors. There’s a gold plaque on the wall, like there is at every office. She wonders who’s this is.

 

“We’re here,” Tholomyes says.

 

He fishes a gold key out of his pocket, unlocks the door, and holds it open for her. Cosette stares in awe, her mouth slightly open, as she steps into his office. It’s much bigger than she expected, with high windows overlooking Paris, and two white leather sofas behind a wall. There’s even a marble fireplace, strategically placed near his mahogany desk.

 

_Enjolras would like this. So would Ferre. They’d love having an office this big – even a meeting place for Les Amis._

“It’s… wow.” Cosette doesn’t really know what to say. “I love it.”

 

Tholomyes’ smile grows wider. “Really? I’m glad.”

 

Cosette sits down by the desk and grins. She wishes she had a place like this – technically, she does, but Tholomyes’ office is about as big as half of her apartment. She’d much rather have an office this size.

 

“You have such a nice view,” she says, running over to the window.

 

Tholomyes stands beside her, his hands tucked in his pockets. “Isn’t it? Sometimes I pull a table and a chair right up to the windows so I can look at Paris and work at the same time. It’s distracting, though.”

 

Cosette’s so busy looking out at the city that she doesn’t notice Tholomyes isn’t beside her anymore. She’s going to have to ask to visit him all the time now, if it means she’ll get to be in the office. Cosette’s about to turn around and ask him something, when she feels someone breathing against her neck. It’s unnerving.

 

Cosette quickly pulls her phone out and types out a message to Eponine. But her hands are shaking too much – something doesn’t feel right.

 

**Eponine**

 

“What the-“

 

Cosette feels a sharp pain in the back of her head, and then darkness swallows her world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay!! intense stuff is happening!! I promise, the Enjoltaire will happen soon. Don't worry.
> 
> I'm open for questions! Come ask me something or say hi on [ tumblr ](https://epo-nine.tumblr.com)!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating might not be as frequent now because of school, but I'll try my best. :) Thank you to everyone who reads this fic, and leaves kudos and comments. I appreciate your support. <3  
> To my sister and Mirela, as always.
> 
> P.S. When reading the bandage scene, listen to [ blood ritual ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_hpBwyXMpA4)(until 1:06) for maximum potc feels.

“What’s the emergency?” Enjolras presses, making his way through a crowded Musain.

 

He’s practically dragging Grantaire with him, because when they had gotten a frantic call from Eponine, he said she could deal with the “emergency” on her own. But warning Cosette would have to wait, if Eponine was that worried.

 

“Thank goodness you’re here,” Eponine says. She sounds breathless, and she looks like she’s been crying. “No one else answered.”

 

“What’s up?” Grantaire asks.

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. Of course he’d put on a show, pretending not to care about Eponine’s emergency, and then the minute they get to the Musain he’s Mr. Concern. Sometimes, he’s unbelievable.

 

Eponine fumbles for her phone, and then shoves it at them. “Cosette went to go meet with Felix, or whatever his name. Said she’d get to see his office. And I made her promise to text me if she doesn’t feel good, or, you know, he’s giving her bad vibes. And… and then I get this.”

 

Enjolras gently takes her phone, and with Grantaire looking over his shoulder, reads the text.

 

**Eponine**

“So?” Enjolras asks. “Do you think she’s in trouble?”

 

Eponine waves her arms around frantically. “Hell yes, Enjolras! Why else would I say this is an emergency? She hasn’t responded to any texts, and she didn’t… it’s not even complete. What do I do? What’s going on?”

 

Grantaire puts a hand on her shoulder, catching her off-guard. “Hey, Eponine, calm down. It’ll be okay. We’ll take care of it, I promise. Nothing’s going to happen to Cosette.”

 

“Okay-“ Eponine pauses and narrows her eyes. “We?”

 

“Me and Enjolras,” Grantaire clarifies.

 

“You think it’s-?” Enjolras asks. He’s too afraid to finish that sentence.

 

Grantaire nods. “I know.”

 

Eponine’s eyes dart between the two of them. She’s obviously confused, but Enjolras doesn’t think they need to explain everything to her now. It can wait until they make sure Cosette’s all right.

 

“What?” Eponine asks.

 

“Nothing,” Grantaire says. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get Cosette. She’ll be fine.”

 

Enjolras glances at Grantaire. He really hopes Cosette isn't in too much trouble. He doesn't really believe Grantaire, but maybe he doesn’t have to. As long as he trusts Grantaire, they’ll be fine. Cosette will be fine.

 

-

 

Without telling Eponine what’s going on, or what their plan is, Enjolras and Grantaire grab the blueprints Atropos gave them and one of the candlesticks.

 

“Just in case,” Grantaire says.

 

They don’t talk as Enjolras follows the directions on his GPS, guiding them through crowded Paris streets. He has no idea where the base is located, and he hopes they’ll get there before it’s too late.

 

“What’s the plan?” He asks.

 

Grantaire’s eyes darken. “Find the base and rescue Cosette.”

 

“That’s it?” Enjolras can’t believe it. Grantaire’s taking them on a suicide mission. Of course. “We’re just going to barge in and hope they don’t kill us?”

 

“You asked for the plan,” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. He’s too focused on making sure Cosette comes out of this alive to worry about Grantaire’s stupid plan. He only hopes nothing happens.

 

-

 

They pull up to an old building in the outskirts of Paris. It looks abandoned, but Enjolras guesses that’s probably on purpose. He looks over at Grantaire as he parks his car.

 

“Ready?” Grantaire asks, smiling.

 

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “Never.”

 

They exit the car and head up to the building. Enjolras really hopes they won’t have to fight anyone, because he doesn’t exactly know how. He can throw a punch, sure. But these are angels he’s talking about. A punch will only make them mad.

 

Enjolras is startled out of his train of thought by Grantaire throwing the candlestick at him. He barely manages to catch it.

 

“Why are you giving it to me?” He asks.

 

Grantaire flashes him a smile. “I don’t need it.”

 

“Right,” Enjolras scoffs. “Like you’re capable of much.”

 

Grantaire flexes his hands, and then reaches out to open the door. “I wouldn’t underestimate what I’m capable of if I were you.”

 

The door creaks open, revealing a large, empty hall. There’s paint peeling off the walls, and the floorboards groan as they step inside. Enjolras grips the candlestick tight. He really hopes he won’t have to use it.

 

Just as Enjolras thinks they’re clear, Grantaire’s head whips around and he turns to face a shadowed corner, eyes wide and alert. He’s making Enjolras nervous.

 

“Humans,” Grantaire whispers. He briefly glances at Enjolras. “I’ll deal with them. Go scout ahead – I don’t think there’s any angels here.”

 

Enjolras hesitates. He can’t just leave Grantaire alone – who knows what they’ll do to him? Even if they’re just humans… he’ll wait until Grantaire’s done “dealing with them”, and then he’ll go.

 

“Come on out, boys,” Grantaire calls out. He’s grinning like an absolute madman. “I don’t have any weapons.”

 

Slowly, figures start to creep out of the shadows. Enjolras counts three – no, five – men, all holding sharp knives. He’s assuming the angels hired them as back-up, even if it’s a pretty low move. How would a bunch of oafish humans help them out?

 

_They’re here to stall us. Maybe hurt me. What are the angels planning?_

The men approach Grantaire, taking no interest in Enjolras, and circle him like hungry vultures. Grantaire looks completely unfazed. Even if they aren’t much of a threat to him, Enjolras can’t help but worry. He has no idea what can and can’t hurt Grantaire, and he doesn’t really want to test it out.

 

“Oh, come on, this is-“

 

One of the men swings his tattooed fist out before Grantaire can finish his sentence, determination written all over his face. But Grantaire blocks his fist with his own hand, as if he hadn’t put much effort into it.

 

“Lame,” he says.

 

The man looks a little startled. He obviously hadn’t expected Grantaire to fight back, let alone block his punch. His lips curl up in a snarl, and then he lifts his other arm-

 

There’s a loud snap, and the man falls on the floor, lifeless. Grantaire managed to break his neck in less than a second. For a moment, no one does anything. The other four men share nervous glances as they continue circling Grantaire, clutching their knives. They’re scared now.

 

Honestly, Enjolras is, too. Well. He doesn’t really know if he’s scared or excited, but he’s definitely feeling something. Up until now, he’s never seen Grantaire’s “dark side”, and now that he gets the chance, he feels… weird. He never imagined Grantaire to be the type of person to impulsively break necks. But he’s probably wrong.

 

Enjolras watches the men, wondering what they’re going to do next. Something about this doesn’t make much sense. How come five pathetic humans is all the angels have for security? How come they’re otherwise alone? Enjolras isn’t really sure he wants to find out.

 

Suddenly, two of the men lunge at Grantaire from opposite sides, their knives raised. In a split second, Grantaire throws them both across the room. Enjolras sees blood dripping down the walls and looks away. He didn’t come here to watch people get killed.

 

He looks up just in time to see Grantaire shove the two remaining men’s knives in their foreheads, until they come out through the other side. Enjolras is going to be sick. He averts his gaze to the floor as Grantaire drops the bodies. Everything is silent now.

 

“Told you I could take care of them,” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras briefly glances at him. “I see that.”

 

Grantaire frowns and gently puts his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. Enjolras flinches. He can’t stop seeing those men die.

 

“Hey.” Grantaire lightly brushes his face with his other hand. How did the same man go from brutal killer to caring friend in less than a minute? “You can go wait in the car if you want. You don’t have to see this.”

 

"No," Enjolras whispers. He feels Grantaire wipe away a tear. He didn’t even realize he was crying. “No, I want to do this. Cosette’s my friend. I have to… I-“

 

Grantaire gives him a soft smile. “Cosette’s lucky to have you as a friend.”

 

Without another word, Grantaire continues exploring the base. It’s large and empty, and most of its windows have been boarded up. They pass a few doors, covered in wooden planks and locks, and Enjolras wonders what the angels are hiding.

 

Eventually, they reach the end of a long, dimly-lit hallway, and find a door. It’s the only one that isn’t locked up. Enjolras and Grantaire share a knowing look.

 

“It’s a trap,” Enjolras says. “It has to be.”

 

Grantaire winks. “I know it’s a trap.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t question him. If Grantaire knew all along that this was a trap, why would he send them here in the first place? Why would he take them on a suicide mission? Enjolras sighs and follows Grantaire down the stairs. There’s no point thinking about things he’ll never get answers to.

 

The room downstairs is, of course, a cellar. There’s barely anything down here – a few shelves lined up against the wall, an old gas stove barely recognizable in the darkness, and a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Grantaire pulls the string attached to it, but it doesn’t turn on.

 

“Damn,” he says. “You can’t see like this.”

 

Enjolras shrugs. “You can see for the both of us.”

 

Grantaire nods, and before he continues exploring, he takes Enjolras’ hand. “I don’t want you to get lost.”

 

“I’m not going to,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes.

 

“Precaution.”

 

They cautiously walk through the cellar, because they can’t really know if there’s anything apart from what they saw.  Enjolras reaches his hand out to feel the wall, but instead cuts his palm on something sharp. He bites his lip, trying to ignore the stinging pain.

 

“You okay?” Grantaire asks, turning around. His eyes glow like a cat’s in the dark. “I smell blood.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t know how to respond with that. So not only does Grantaire see in the dark, he can smell blood. That’s comforting.

 

“Yeah, I just cut my hand,” he says.

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything. They continue scouting the rest of the cellar in silence. The only thing keeping them together is their entwined hands. They’ve already spent a while searching down here, and Enjolras feels like something’s going to happen. His stomach flutters with dread as he follows Grantaire. What’s lurking in the shadows, waiting for them?

 

Suddenly, they stop moving. Enjolras’ heart sinks.

 

“So that’s it, then. We’ve looked everywhere, and Cosette isn’t here.” Enjolras sighs. He had a feeling this was going to happen.

 

Grantaire turns to look at him with those luminous eyes. “No, we haven’t looked everywhere.”

 

“What-“

 

Before Enjolras can finish his sentence, Grantaire effortlessly kicks the wall, and a door slams open. Enjolras hadn’t even noticed it – but then again, he can’t see in the dark. He’s been relying on Grantaire’s vision this whole time – how much things had he not seen? Without warning, Grantaire drops Enjolras’ hand and steps into the room. Enjolras’ eyes adjust to the dark well enough for him to see the door, but he lost track of Grantaire.

 

“Is there anything in there?” He asks.

 

Grantaire comes out of the room, but something’s different. He’s carrying something, but Enjolras doesn’t know what.

 

“What-“

 

“Cosette,” Grantaire says. Enjolras lets out a breath of relief. “She’s wounded.”

 

That isn’t good news. Enjolras was hoping she’d be all right, that they came in time to get her before anything happened, but he was wrong. In the silence, he can hear Cosette’s broken breathing. It’s so faint. What did they do to her?

 

“Come on.” Grantaire skillfully maneuvers past Enjolras and starts heading towards the stairs.

 

Enjolras only manages to keep up by following the distinct sound of Cosette’s breath. He keeps a hand firmly against the wall, but he doesn’t cut himself this time – Grantaire must’ve chosen a different route.

 

(Enjolras tries not to think too much about this. He doesn’t like acknowledging that Grantaire seems to care for him.)

 

Once they’re back in the hallway, Enjolras finally sees her. Cosette looks terrible; half of her face is covered in dry, dark blood, and it’s stained her shirt. Enjolras presses two fingers against her neck – her pulse is so weak, he can barely feel it. But at least he knows she’s still alive. That’s always good news.

 

Grantaire frowns at Enjolras as they walk down the hallway. “You don’t have to look so worried. She isn’t internally injured. Perhaps she has a concussion, but it’s difficult to tell right now.”

 

“How do you know she isn’t internally injured?” Enjolras asks, narrowing his eyes. He keeps finding out more and more strange (and disconcerting) things about Grantaire today.

 

Grantaire shrugs. “I just know.”

 

Just as Enjolras starts to think that they’re all right, Grantaire picks up his pace and practically runs for the door. Enjolras barely manages to keep up. He’s a little confused – well, he’s been confused ever since they got here. Not much has made sense to him in the past hour.

 

“What?” He asks.

 

Grantaire anxiously looks around, like he’s expecting something to happen. It’s incredibly unnerving.

 

“They’re here,” Grantaire whispers.

 

He darts to the car, yanks the door open (it’s locked, he shouldn’t have been able to do that), and gently lays Cosette down on the back seat. Without saying anything, he walks over to the driver’s seat and gets in.

 

“That isn’t safe,” Enjolras says, slamming the car door behind him. “You can’t do that.”

 

Grantaire gives him an unimpressed look. “I’m fucking Death, Enjolras. I can do whatever the hell I want to.”

 

He starts the engine, glances over his shoulder, and then speeds back onto the road. Enjolras wants to complain, to tell him that there’s still a speed limit, but he doesn’t think that’s a good idea. Grantaire’s obviously pissed at him, and there’s something else bothering him, too.

 

“What is it?” Enjolras asks.

 

Grantaire briefly glances at him. “Someone’s following us. Angels, I’m assuming. They were probably waiting by the base this whole time.”

 

Enjolras looks through the mirror, his eyes wide. There’s a car right behind them. Enjolras swears it was at the base, but he doesn’t remember seeing anyone inside. Maybe he just wasn’t paying enough attention. Enjolras snaps out of his train of thought, and sits in silent dread as Grantaire runs a red light. They’re back in central Paris. He wonders how much time he’s spent thinking.

 

“You can’t run a red light,” Enjolras says. He’s well aware how desperate he sounds, but he’ll do anything to get Grantaire to stop giving him anxiety.

 

Grantaire growls. It shouldn’t be nearly as seductive as it is. “Stop telling me what I can’t do.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t mention it the second (or the third) time he runs a red light, mostly because Grantaire is scary, and he has a tendency to let other people take control. Unless it comes to Les Amis, of course. But Enjolras definitely wouldn’t mind it if Grantaire took control more often. He turns to check on Cosette – she’s still barely breathing, and her eyes are closed.

 

_She’s going to need a doctor, or something._

Enjolras quickly scans their surroundings, and then fire off a text to Joly.

 

**We’ll be at your apartment in 15 minutes. Have a first aid kit ready.**

_What? Why? Are you okay? Are you in trouble?_

“Take a left,” Enjolras says.

 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Like hell I’m talking orders from you.”

 

“Cosette needs medical attention. Take a left.”

 

Grantaire gives him the finger, but takes the next left turn anyways. Enjolras finally allows himself to relax – he knows the way to Joly’s apartment from here, and then Cosette will be okay. But that car is still following them. So maybe everything isn’t all good.

 

**Just get ready, Joly. We’ll explain everything when we get there.**

_WE?????????_

Enjolras puts his phone away, and he suddenly notices that the car isn’t moving. And Grantaire is getting out. And they’re on the middle of a bridge.

 

“What the hell?” Enjolras asks. He doesn’t have time for any of Grantaire’s games right now.

 

“I’ll stall the angels. You can get Cosette somewhere safe.”

 

Enjolras blinks. He knows what Grantaire’s trying to say, but he doesn’t think it’s a good plan. How can he just leave him here, without any backup? Then again, maybe Grantaire doesn’t need backup. He literally just killed five men by himself – surely, getting rid of a few pesky angels won’t be such a problem.

 

"Do it," Grantaire says. He slams the car door and walks off before Enjolras gets a chance to say anything else.

 

Sighing, Enjolras awkwardly gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine again. He doesn’t look back at Grantaire or the other car – the only thing on his mind is getting Cosette to safety.

 

~

 

“Get out of the car, you coward,” Grantaire says.

 

The man in the car doesn’t move for a few minutes, but then he eventually gets out. He looks a little surprised, but he isn’t scared. Not yet, anyways.

 

The man crosses his arms. “Azrael. I didn’t think you were involved.”

 

Grantaire lunges and grabs the man by his shirt collar. He feels like punching his face out, but that would cause a scene, and that isn’t exactly what he wants. So he’ll have to settle for something a little less dramatic.

 

“Of course I’m involved,” he snaps. “He’s mine.”

 

The man laughs, an eyebrow raised. “Oh, he’s yours? What, are you guys sleep-“

 

Grantaire violently slams the man against the bridge, holding him up. He’s got the upper hand now, and the man knows it. There’s a hint of fear in his eyes. That’s how Grantaire likes it – that subtle terror, the way someone becomes aware of what he’s capable of only after he’s done it. So maybe he’s a bit sadistic.

 

“You shut your fucking mouth,” he hisses.

 

The man doesn’t grace Grantaire with a reply.

 

“And don’t come after us.”

 

The man snorts. “Or?”

 

Grantaire trails his fingers along the man’s jaw, and then lets his hand rest against the side of his neck. There’s something wildly thrilling about teasing a person’s life – and he knows that snapping his neck won’t kill the angel, but it will kill the vessel he’s possessing.

 

“I do collect souls for a living, you know,” Grantaire says, flashing the man a sinister smile.

 

The man tenses. He doesn’t say anything else – not that there’d be a point in talking. Perhaps he’s smart enough to know what Grantaire can (and will) do to him. Grantaire gives him one last glare, and then releases him. The man looks like he wants to keep fighting, but Grantaire isn’t going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

 

Right now, he has more pressing matters: Cosette.

 

~

 

The minute Enjolras parks the car outside the building, Combeferre’s already at the front door. He practically runs outside.

 

“Did you go there alone?” He demands.

 

Enjolras lifts Cosette out of the car with Combeferre’s help, and then kicks the door closed. He doesn’t even think about locking it. They carefully make their way into the building, and then wait for the elevator to arrive.

 

Enjolras finally replies, “No. Grantaire went with me.”

 

“And where is he?” Combeferre’s obviously pissed that he isn’t here.

 

Enjolras shrugs, shifting Cosette’s weight from one arm to the other. “I don’t know. He said he’d take care of the person who was following us, and then he told me to come here.”

 

The elevator doors open, and they awkwardly get inside. Enjolras has to hold Cosette upright as they go up to the fifth floor.

 

“What? Someone was following you?”

 

Enjolras attempts to wave his hand in dismissal. “I’ll tell you later, it’s a long story.”

 

They lift Cosette again and carry her down the hall. Musichetta’s holding the door open, concern written across her face. Combeferre mutters something to her as they go inside. Enjolras barely notices everyone else, all crowded in the living room.

 

“Oh, god, what happened?” Joly cries, running up to Cosette. He’s balancing four first aid kits on his arms, which he drops beside the sofa as soon as Combeferre gets her up.

 

Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, completely forgetting about his bloody wound. “We don’t know yet.”

 

“We?” Joly gives him a frantic look. “Who’s we?”

 

“Me and him.”

 

They all simultaneously look at Grantaire, who’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He looks like he just brutally murdered someone, which is entirely possible.

 

“What took you so long?” Enjolras asks.

 

Grantaire’s eyes go dark. It’s unsettling. “I told you I’d take care of it. And I did.”

 

“What did you do?”

 

“Relax,” Grantaire says, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t kill anyone this time. I just… gave him a warning.”

 

“This time?” Joly squeaks.

 

He’s already gotten to work on Cosette, cleaning the blood from her face and sanitizing the gash on her head. Combeferre’s helping him, searching for a needle and thread in the first aid kits. Enjolras’ heart sinks. Well. At least she only needs stitches, and nothing more.

 

“So what happened?” Jehan asks.

 

Enjolras sighs. “It’s… I’ll tell you once we know Cosette’s okay.”

 

“She’ll be fine,” Combeferre says. “Joly’s almost done.”

 

Joly nods. He still looks panicked. “She just needs to rest, and we’ll check on her once she’s awake.”

 

He stands up, his hands on his hips. Joly doesn’t really look like he believes himself, but maybe that’s just him. Cosette’s going to be okay. She has to be. Enjolras is already mad at himself for letting this happen, he can’t allow anything else. She’s going to be okay.

 

“I’ll watch over her,” Grantaire says. Before anyone can object, he lifts Cosette and follows Bossuet to a bedroom.

 

Enjolras feels… he feels weird. It’s almost jealousy, but he can’t be jealous. He has no reason to be. Grantaire spends every night with him, why should he care if Cosette gets his company for a few hours? Except, they are going to be alone. And Enjolras hates the thought of Grantaire being alone with anyone else but him.

 

(He also hates the idea of Grantaire carrying anyone else but him, but he’s not ready to think about that.)

 

“Well?” Eponine asks, biting her lip. “You’ve got to tell us what happened now.”

 

Enjolras sits down on the sofa and takes a deep breath. He tells them about the base, and the five men Grantaire killed (Combeferre’s the only one who looks worried), and the dark cellar. He tells them about the car chase, and how Grantaire practically yelled at him to get Cosette to safety.

 

But even with their excitement and fascination, Enjolras still can’t seem to ignore Combeferre’s concern. And maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to, anyways.

 

-

 

It’s almost midnight, and the entire apartment has been swallowed by darkness. Everyone stayed over for an impromptu sleepover, because they felt uncomfortable leaving Cosette. Enjolras, however, is the only one not asleep yet. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Grantaire kill those men. And he knows it shouldn’t bother him that much – after all, they were probably supposed to kill them.

 

So now he’s in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee machine to work. He likes how quiet the apartment is at night. He likes the comfort that comes with knowing he’s safe, and that his friends are okay. Maybe that’s why he’s still awake – he doesn’t want anything to happen to them. He can’t let anything happen.

 

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

 

Enjolras turns around. Grantaire’s leaning against the wall, eyes narrowed at him. He hadn’t even heard him come.

 

“I’m just not tired,” Enjolras lies. Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be with Cosette?”

 

Grantaire shrugs. “She’ll be okay if I leave her alone for a bit.”

 

Enjolras nods and looks back at the coffee machine. His hand still stings with pain, and every time something touches it, the wound starts bleeding again. He doesn’t even know what he cut his hand on, or why it’s this bad.

 

He feels Grantaire put a hand on his shoulder, and he holds his breath. Grantaire’s other hand takes his own, his fingers resting lightly on his wound. Enjolras turns his head, and Grantaire’s so close. Their lips are almost touching. And Grantaire’s eyes – oh, they’re even bluer up close. Blue like Caribbean beaches, or the farthest reaches of the sky.

 

“You’re still bleeding,” Grantaire whispers.

 

Enjolras wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t. He can’t seem to find the words for what he wants to say. (Maybe he does know the words, but he doesn’t want to say them.)

 

Without letting go of his hand, Grantaire takes Enjolras over to the window seat in the living room – it’s the only unoccupied space.

 

“I’ll be back,” he says.

 

Enjolras sits down, unsure of what to do. He still feels Grantaire’s touch, still sees those mesmerizing eyes. Grantaire’s going to kill him one day, and he’s going to look at him with those blue, blue eyes – and if that’s the last thing Enjolras sees, he’s not going to mind.

 

He’s startled out of his train of thought when Grantaire comes back with cotton balls, cleaning alcohol, tape, and a roll of cloth bandage. Enjolras’ stomach flutters.

 

_He’s going to take care of me._

Grantaire sits down across from Enjolras, and once again they’re so, very close. If Enjolras moved, even a tiny bit, they might accidentally kiss. He wouldn’t mind, obviously. But now he’s too focused on Grantaire’s hands as he soaks the cotton balls in alcohol. He looks up at Enjolras.

 

“Do you mind?”

 

Enjolras shakes his head. “Never.”

 

Grantaire takes his hand again and carefully – gently – dabs his wound. Enjolras takes a sharp breath and bites his tongue. The pain flares up again, but he allows Grantaire to continue cleaning his hand in that methodical, organized way of his. It feels incredibly intimate, sitting there by the window, washed in silver moonlight. Enjolras barely notices Grantaire clean the blood all over his hands, and even in his hair.

 

“Does it hurt?” Grantaire asks. He pauses what he’s doing, the cotton ball lingering in the air.

 

Enjolras shakes his head again. “It’s okay.”

 

Grantaire nods and continues cleaning up the wound until there isn’t a speck of blood. He briefly glances up at Enjolras, as if asking for permission, and then unrolls the bandage. Slowly, he winds the cloth around Enjolras’ hand several times, their fingers barely touching. Enjolras doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until Grantaire rips the bandage and gently tapes it down. They don’t talk for a while, and Enjolras doesn’t mind. He’s still in shock.

 

“I hope that’ll help,” Grantaire says, breaking the silence.

 

Enjolras smiles. “I know it will.”

 

Grantaire leans forward until their lips are practically touching, and places one hand on Enjolras’ cheek.

 

“Good night, Enjolras,” he whispers.

 

Enjolras closes his eyes. He feels Grantaire's breath, his hands on his face - and then he doesn’t. By the time he opens his eyes, Grantaire’s gone. Enjolras sighs. He wonders where that – whatever _that_ was – could’ve gone, if Grantaire had stayed. But he’s much too tired to think of such things, so instead he lies down on the window seat, and dreams of silver skies and warm kisses.

 

-

 

They find out the next morning that Cosette barely remembers anything. She only makes it to the kitchen with Grantaire’s help, and her voice is so hoarse, they can barely understand her. She tells them about Tholomyes knocking her out, and how she remembers hearing someone call him “Ariel”.

 

Grantaire’s eyes darken. “Ariel.”

 

“You know him?” Enjolras asks.

 

“I wish I didn’t.” Grantaire pauses, hesitant to continue. “He’s the… well, he’s basically the commander of all angels, and the head of their mission.”

 

Enjolras rubs his hand across his face. “So to stop the angels, we need to take him out. Great.”

 

“He’s dying anyways,” Grantaire says, his voice low and dangerous. “And I’m going to be the last thing he sees.”

 

Combeferre gives Enjolras a worried glance. Ever since Enjolras told them what happened yesterday, he doesn’t seem to trust Grantaire. He does have a perfectly valid reason, though – if Grantaire mercilessly killed those people, he can kill them, too. And what’s to say he won’t? Even Enjolras feels a little unsettled, but it only makes his feelings grow stronger. He wonders what Grantaire would do to him, if he got the chance.

 

(He’d let Grantaire do whatever he wanted. So maybe thinking about that is a little pointless.)

 

“Why did they take Cosette in the first place?” Courfeyrac asks.

 

Enjolras feels like he missed something. But it’s probably not important, if no one’s bothering to fill him in.

 

Grantaire shrugs. “Ariel probably thought she knew something. Maybe about what Enjolras knows, or if I’m involved… except now he _does_ know I’m part of this.”

 

"Talk to your friend," Combeferre suggests. "Maybe she’ll be able to help us out.”

 

“Atropos?” Grantaire snorts and shakes his head. “She’s never been my favourite resource. I’m sure we can manage it on our own. The angels don’t know about you guys yet – well, they know about Cosette, but that’s it. So you’re safe for now. As long as they don’t come after you, we’re fine.”

 

Enjolras frowns. “So we’re not going to do anything?”

 

Grantaire rolls his eyes, frustrated. “That’s not what I said. _I’m_ going to do something. I’m also going to try and get rid of the demons before they pick a fight. But you guys… this isn’t your war.”

 

“It is my-“

 

Grantaire grabs Enjolras by his shirt collar and leans forward until their noses touch. He doesn’t look pleased. God, Enjolras loves it when Grantaire acts like this. When he gives out to his darkness, when there’s nothing but absolute, unpredictable danger in his eyes. It does things to his body he’d rather not think about.

 

“It’s only your war when I say it is,” Grantaire hisses. “And right now, it isn’t.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say. He’s a little scared right now, but he knows Grantaire would never do anything to him.

 

“Okay,” he says.

 

Grantaire releases his shirt and disappears. Enjolras assumes he’s gone to talk to Atropos, but he can’t ever know for sure – Grantaire might as well be letting off steam through cold-blooded murder. Not that that’s ever going to be a possibility he likes considering.

 

“You know, I think maybe you should just call it off.”

 

Enjolras frowns. “What? Why?”

 

“Just…” Combeferre shrugs. “I don’t think he’s good for you, Enj. And he’s obviously not opposed to killing people in his way. What if you end up there, huh? What if he ends up killing you? We can’t take that risk.”

 

“He’s not going to kill me.”

 

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know that.”

 

“Yeah, I think I do.” Enjolras sighs. “Listen, I know you guys don’t trust him right now, but that’s not my problem. This is my war, too.”

 

“But what if he-“

 

“Ferre.” Enjolras’ voice is sharp, commanding. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit, okay? Grantaire’s not going to kill me. He’s not going to hurt me. So maybe you should stop thinking he will.”

 

Combeferre nods, but he doesn’t say anything else. No one says anything – they all just share awkward glances. Enjolras knows what they’re thinking. He knows they think Grantaire’s dangerous, and that he’s going to kill them all.

 

But Enjolras knows Grantaire, and he knows that, if anything, he’s going to protect them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to channel Will and Elizabeth here... 
> 
> Come say hi or ask stuff on [ tumblr ](https://epo-nine.tumblr.com)!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to everyone who's still reading this fic, and a special thanks to JustJules (I'm so excited to see your drawings!!!)!  
> Alongside him, this chapter goes out to my dear Mirela, who I think is my only friend who's still keeping up with this. <3

“Atropos can’t help us,” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras shifts and buries his face in Grantaire’s shoulder. He’s too asleep for this. “Mmm.”

 

“I knew that, obviously,” Grantaire continues. He’s now resorted to softly stroking Enjolras’ hair to keep him awake. “But you know, she still could’ve proved me wrong.”

 

“Mmm.”

 

Grantaire smells like saltwater and forests and old, dusty books. It’s making Enjolras even sleepier – he can already barely keep his eyes open. Figuratively, that is. He hasn’t actually looked at anything in over ten minutes. (It’s a record, he supposes – staying awake this long in absolute darkness.)

 

“Enj? You awake?”

 

Enjolras nods and tightens his grip on Grantaire’s shirt. “Mmm.”

 

Grantaire snorts. “Have you forgotten how to speak?”

 

Enjolras doesn’t reply to that. He knows Grantaire’s just trying to get him to talk, but it’s really late, and honestly, he should be sleeping. He’s really tired, anyways.

 

“ _Enj_.” Grantaire nudges his body. “I’m not going to have sex with you if you fall asleep.”

 

Enjolras immediately jerks his head up and narrows his eyes at Grantaire. “You’re not going to have sex with me anyways.”

 

“You don’t know that,” Grantaire retorts. “At least you’re awake now.”

 

_Stupid, stupid idiot._

Enjolras groans and throws his head back on Grantaire. He doesn’t have the patience or the energy to deal with him right now, and he’d much rather sleep. Sleep is good, right? At least, that’s what Combeferre told him. More than once. Almost every night.

 

Grantaire sighs. “Fine, be that way. Sleep if you want to.”

 

“Sleep is good,” Enjolras mutters into his shirt.

 

“Sleep is for pathetic losers.”

 

Enjolras lets out a quiet laugh. God, he’s too tired for this. “Good night, Grantaire.”

 

"Good night, mon cheri.”

 

~

 

It’s Eponine’s eighteenth birthday. She’s spending the day with Montparnasse and his friends – she hasn’t even seen her parents, or her siblings, at all. It’s better this way, anyways.

 

_When she woke up today, in Montparnasse’s bed, he pulled her close and kissed her softly._

_“Happy birthday, babe,” he said, smiling that brilliant smile of his._

_Eponine broke off the kiss, her hands on his chest. “Mm, and what you are you getting me?”_

_“Anything you want.”_

 

It’s noon, and they’re in one of those expensive boutiques Eponine rarely goes to. Montparnasse had told her she could have whatever she wanted, and that’s exactly what she’s doing.

 

Eponine steps out of the change room, her hands on her hips. She’s wearing one of the outfits Guelemer chose for her, and it isn’t as bad as she thought it would be. Montparnasse narrows his eyes.

 

“I don’t know,” he says, his head tilted. “It’s a bit…”

 

“Geeky?” Brujon supplies.

 

Montparnasse shrugs. “Yeah, kind of.” He turns to Guelemer. “Why did you choose this, again?”

 

“It suits Eponine,” he says defensively.

 

Eponine nods. “Everything suits me, boys. And Sous.”

 

“Thanks,” Claquesous says dryly.

 

“Okay, fine, I guess this is a winner. But you’re not wearing that in public.” Montparnasse throws something at Eponine, which she catches with one hand. “We’re going to a club tonight.”

 

“So?”

 

Montparnasse looks at her like she’s crazy. “ _So_ , you need to be dressed to impress.”

 

“And what’s wrong with what I chose?” Guelemer asks.

 

Claquesous pats Guelemer on the shoulder and flashes him a bright red smile. “Oh, honey. It’s like you’ve never been to a club.”

 

Eponine leaves that boutique with enough clothing to satisfy four women, and a happy boyfriend on her arm. He takes her out to lunch (at some fancy, top-notch restaurant filled with rich American tourists), and she wonders how he has all this money. Not that it really matters, though. At least her friends remembered her birthday, and she’s glad she gets to spend it with them.

 

They go to a new, “trendy” club in a part of Paris Eponine’s never been too. Almost everyone – including themselves – arrives in a limousine, and the line to get in stretches around the block. Somehow, Montparnasse gets them in, which Eponine is forever grateful for.

 

“Wanna dance?” Montparnasse asks, yelling above the loud music.

 

Eponine leans in to kiss him. “Mm, I think I’ll get a drink first.”

 

She’s about to head to the bar, but she suddenly stops in her tracks. It can’t be. Eponine’s heart starts pounding. He can’t… he can’t be here. But sure enough, Grantaire is there, nursing a full glass of whiskey. He doesn’t seem to have noticed her yet.

 

_I can’t see him again._

Everything from last year starts coming back to her again, so Eponine goes back to Montparnasse and gives him another kiss. He looks a little confused, but he isn’t questioning anything. That’s one reason Eponine adores him – he doesn’t think everything’s his business. He may be a criminal, but he’s still a good man.

 

“Babe?” Montparnasse asks.

 

Eponine runs her hands over his jacket. It’s leather. (She told him once that she wanted it, and he didn’t say no.) “I changed my mind. Let’s go dance.”

 

Eponine allows herself to lose control, to let herself do whatever she wants. By the time Claquesous (she’s such a mood killer, insisting they need to sleep tonight) drags them over to a quiet booth to have some snacks before they leave, Eponine’s had at least five drinks, and probably twice as many shots. She lost count after Brujon ordered their third round.

 

But she still can’t shake the feeling that Grantaire’s there, somewhere in the club, and that he’s watching her.

 

~  


Enjolras and Grantaire go out a lot, and it’s becoming a bit of a problem. Firstly, Enjolras can’t tell if they’re going out on dates for the life of him. Secondly, Grantaire’s getting a little too comfortable with him. Only yesterday, they danced rather inappropriately at some club – well, to be fair, everyone else was there too, so it doesn’t really count as a date.

 

Or maybe it does. Enjolras can’t know, because he’s never dated. He still doesn’t know what people do with their feelings, how is he supposed to recognize a date?

 

They’re at a bar tonight, because Grantaire keeps insisting that Enjolras needs to meet new people. Not that Enjolras knows why – every time they go out, they spend the whole night together, and Grantaire’s the only one who talks to other people. They’ve only been here for an hour, and he’s already gotten thirty offers to hook up.

 

“On average, people ask to have sex with you every two minutes,” Enjolras says, stirring his drink. He isn’t normally one for alcohol, but he’s going to need some to get through tonight.

 

Grantaire winks at him. “And are you going to be number thirty-one?”

 

“Nope.” Enjolras chugs his drink. He isn’t drunk enough for this.

 

“Oh, come on,” Grantaire whines. “I’m attractive. I have thousands of years of experience.”

 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “How much times have you actually had sex, Grantaire?”

 

“…Enough times to be good at it.” Grantaire pokes his shoulder. “And how much times have _you_ had sex, Monsieur Enjolras?”

 

Enjolras awkwardly clears his throat and signals the bartender for a refill. He hasn’t had sex yet, and Grantaire doesn’t need to know that. It’s a little embarrassing, anyways – he’s 21, and he’s never even kissed someone. Not that he wants to.

 

(Well, until Grantaire came along. Now he very much wants to kiss him.)

 

“It’s not even that fun,” Grantaire says. He knows.

 

Enjolras thanks the bartender for the fresh drink, and chugs half of it. “Is that why you turned down all those people?”

 

“That, and there’s someone else I’d much rather have sex with. Not casually, of course.”

 

Enjolras chokes. Who is that other person? Could it possibly – no, Grantaire’s probably talking about Courfeyrac. Everyone wants to have sex with Courfeyrac. Or Combeferre. Or Eponine. Now that Enjolras thinks about it, all his friends are attractive enough to get hook-up offers at bars. Therefore, Grantaire could be talking about any of them.

 

“Why don’t you try and make some friends?” Grantaire asks.

 

Enjolras gives him an unimpressed look. “People don’t go to bars to make friends. If I wanted to do that, I could go to high school.”

 

“Then why don’t you go?” Grantaire asks.

 

It would be a perfectly legitimate question, if it wasn’t so stupid. Enjolras has a feeling Grantaire’s doing this on purpose, and that annoys him to no end. (But it doesn’t annoy him as much as the thought that Grantaire wants to have sex with one of his friends.)

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Because I already graduated, dumbass.”

 

“I knew that. But you need friends.”

 

“I have friends,” Enjolras says.

 

“Not enough. Do you know how much friends I have?” Grantaire pokes Enjolras’ nose. “You. Atropos doesn’t count.”

 

Enjolras frowns. “What’s your point, exactly?”

 

“I don’t have one,” Grantaire says. He shakes his head. “Whatever. Socializing is good for you.”

 

“Sure,” Enjolras drawls. “Says you, the guy who-“ He follows Grantaire’s focused gaze, but he can’t tell what’s so interesting. “What?”

 

“Let’s go,” Grantaire says abruptly.

 

He grabs Enjolras’ hand and maneuvers them through the crowded bar. They go out through the side door, which leads out to a dark alleyway. Enjolras is still really confused. He has no idea why they left, or what’s going on. He reaches into his pocket and takes out the stake they made from the cross, just in case.

 

“What’s-“

 

The door opens, and two men step out into the alleyway. They look intimidating. Enjolras subconsciously reaches for Grantaire’s hand, glad he’s not alone. This is why he doesn’t like going out at night.

 

Grantaire flashes the men a sinister smile. “Hello, boys.”

 

Enjolras glances at him. “What-“

 

“Demons,” Grantaire says. “Here to kill you, or capture you, or something.”

 

Enjolras tightens his grip on his stake. Before he can really process what’s going on, one of them men lunges at him. Enjolras is almost too terrified to do anything, but he somehow manages to get the stake in the man’s stomach.

 

“Shit,” the man says.

 

He growls at Enjolras, reaches into his pocket to pull a knife out-

 

But then he suddenly goes still, his eyes wide in shock. Puzzled, Enjolras looks down. He feels sick. Grantaire’s punched right through the man, his fist coming out clean through his abdomen. Blood starts pooling out of the hole, dripping down his hand.

 

Grantaire suddenly yanks his hand back, and the man drops dead. Enjolras looks away before he gets a glimpse of his body – there are some things he’d rather not see.

 

“You could at least say thank you,” Grantaire mutters.

 

Enjolras blinks at him. “You punched _through him._ ”

 

“Yeah, and?”

 

“ _Through him. Right through his body._ ”

 

Grantaire shrugs. “Hey, he was going to kill you. What else was I supposed to do? Give him a lollipop and a pass to Disney World?”

 

“No, you could’ve… killed him less brutally?” Enjolras knows he’s going to have nightmares about this.

 

“Efficiency, Enjolras.”

 

Enjolras looks over at the other man, who’s slumped against the wall. He doesn’t look like he’s been punched through.

 

“I snapped his neck,” Grantaire explains.

 

There’s still something that doesn’t make sense, though. “But how did you kill them?”

 

“Um, hello?” Grantaire sighs. “I’m technically an angel. Which, by extension, means I’m “holy”.”

 

“But you’re not,” Enjolras says, confused.

 

Grantaire shrugs again. “I don’t make the rules up. Let’s go.”

 

Enjolras follows Grantaire back onto the street, ignoring the blood still dripping from his hand. He also ignores the strange looks people send their way. Even though Grantaire could’ve killed the man less brutally, Enjolras can’t help but think that he did it for him. His life is so messed up, he can consider that a nice gesture.

 

Enjolras doesn’t dwell on that.

 

~

 

It’s a warm Sunday morning, and Grantaire finds Eponine sitting on a bench by the Seine. She seems to like going out early, when the world’s still quiet and the air is still cold. Now’s probably a good time to talk – they won’t get interrupted.

 

“You seem happy,” Grantaire says, sitting down beside her.

 

Eponine stiffens. “I am.”

 

Grantaire looks at her curiously. “Were you happy before? With Montparnasse?”

 

“I don’t know.” Eponine leans back against the bench and shrugs. “Maybe I was, then. But I did a lot of stupid things that I thought were okay, so.”

 

Grantaire nods. He’s glad that she’s doing okay now – she seems to have gotten her life back on track.

 

“Why are you here?” Eponine asks.

 

“I think we should talk.”

 

Eponine crosses her arms. “About what? About how I thought you were my imaginary friend for eleven years? About how you stopped showing up, and now you’re here again?”

 

Grantaire runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “You know I care about you, right? I’ve cared about you since the moment Atropos told me I had to kill you. I’ve never stopped caring about you. And you have to know, it was just easier for you to think I was imaginary-“

 

Eponine scoffs. She lets him continue.

 

“And… well, eventually you stopped needing me. You must’ve been happy with Montparnasse, if you didn’t attempt suicide for four years. It’s been that long, right?” Grantaire pauses. “Eponine, you’re my friend. I’m always going to be there if you need me.”

 

Eponine nods. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

 

“What?” Grantaire hadn’t been expecting her to say that.

 

“Don’t tell them I’ve… I’ve tried to kill myself.”

 

“I won’t,” Grantaire says.

 

Eponine offers a smile, and without warning, she leans in and hugs him. Grantaire’s missed Eponine’s hugs. He’s missed _her_. And, okay, he knows he’s going to spend the majority of his time with Enjolras anyways, but at least Eponine’s still going to be there. At least she’s okay, she’s alive, she’s happy. He’s never really wanted anything else for her.

 

“You _are_ happy, right?” Grantaire asks.

 

He feels Eponine smile into his shirt. “More than I’ve ever been.”

 

~

 

Enjolras wakes up in a panic, his eyes wide and his breath fast. His heart is pounding. It’s the third time this week he’s had a nightmare about that man in the alley, and they’re worse than those he has about the Forest.

 

Placing a hand against his neck to feel his pulse, Enjolras looks over at his alarm clock and sighs.

 

_23:03._

He really needs to get some sleep, because tomorrow’s Wednesday, and they’re holding a Les Amis meeting. Combeferre thinks it’s a good idea to get their minds off of the war, and all that angel crap, and focus on planning another event, or something.  Even Grantaire thinks they need to do that, and that’s saying a lot.

 

“Enj? Why are you awake?”

 

Enjolras looks over at Grantaire, who’s sitting upright. He’s always awake. Enjolras doesn’t think he sleeps.

 

“I just had a nightmare,” he says.

 

“Same one?”

 

Enjolras nods. “Same one.”

 

“Let’s go out, then. Maybe some fresh air will help you calm down.”

 

Grantaire takes Enjolras’ hand and leads him out onto the balcony. It’s definitely colder out here, but it’s hot enough that Enjolras doesn’t need a sweater. He loves looking at Paris from his balcony – especially when Grantaire’s with him.

 

“When’s your birthday, Enjolras?”

 

Enjolras gives Grantaire a curious look. He doesn’t get what this has to do with anything. “Next week. On the fifth. Why?”

 

“Just wondering,” Grantaire says. “So I can plan ahead.”

 

“Plan what?” Enjolras asks.

 

Grantaire shakes his head and leans forward against the railing. “I can’t tell you, it’s a surprise.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. Of course he'd keep his plans a secret. Because that’s what immortal beings do. They stand in silence for a few minutes, watching the city. Enjolras feels like he’s calm enough to go back to sleep, but he doesn’t really want to.

 

“Um, well,” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras hums. “What?”

 

“I, uh, I promised Eponine I’d meet with her early tomorrow morning-“

 

“Okay.” Enjolras doesn’t understand why this concerns him, but he’ll listen to anything Grantaire says.

 

Grantaire’s gaze shifts from the view to Enjolras. “I guess I should be going now.”

 

Just as Grantaire turns to leave, Enjolras reaches out and wraps his hand around his wrist. He doesn’t really know why he’s doing this.

 

“Don’t,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

 

Grantaire turns to look at him – and they’re so close. Enjolras can see every flicker of gold in his blue, blue eyes. They breathe in sync. No one says anything. Grantaire puts one hand on Enjolras’ waist, cold and familiar, and lets the other one rest against his cheek. Enjolras feels his heart beat faster.

 

Grantaire leans in, and their lips touch.

 

Enjolras loses all ability to focus, or think, or even process what’s going on, because Grantaire’s kissing him. It’s slow and gentle and cautious, like Grantaire doesn’t want to hurt him. Tentatively, Enjolras wraps his arms around Grantaire’s neck and pulls him closer, until there’s no gap between their bodies.

 

Without breaking the kiss, Grantaire somehow gets them inside and onto the bed, laying Enjolras down gently, as if he’s afraid of hurting him.

 

(Enjolras knows Grantaire would never hurt him.  And he’d never let him, anyways.)

 

Grantaire runs his hands over Enjolras’ sides, and he shivers underneath his shirt. He’s never gotten this far with anyone, and it’s exhilarating. He keeps one hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and lets the other drop on the bed. Grantaire could hold him down, if he wanted. Pin him to the bed and make sure he won’t leave. Enjolras wouldn’t mind.

 

Grantaire suddenly breaks the kiss, hovering barely an inch above him. His eyes are dark with lust.

 

“You’ll let me know if I hurt you, right?” He asks, his voice rough.

 

Instead of replying, Enjolras leans up to kiss him again. He’s enjoying this far more than he thinks he should, but he’s too busy to think about the consequences.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Grantaire murmurs against his lips.

 

Enjolras smiles. He lets Grantaire continue kissing him, soft and painfully slow, as if they have all the time in the world. He lets Grantaire take his wrists in his hands, place kisses along his jaw and collarbone, and run his fingers through his hair.

 

He lets Grantaire have him like no one else ever has.

 

-

 

Enjolras looks over at the alarm clock. _1:02_. He should’ve been asleep hours ago, but this is a much better option. He’s curled up, his head on Grantaire’s chest, and Grantaire’s arm is wrapped around his waist. (Possibly lower, but no one needs to know that.)

 

“I’ve never had sex for two hours,” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras smiles into his chest. “That’s because you were being slow.”

 

“You’ve never _had_ sex before. I was being considerate.”

 

Enjolras sits up just so he can kiss Grantaire, like he’s been doing this whole time. He likes kissing Grantaire, because kissing him feels like having the whole world at the tip of his tongue. And that’s a feeling Enjolras never wants to forget.

 

“So,” Grantaire says, trailing his fingers along Enjolras’ side. “Do you believe that I’m good now?”

 

Enjolras tilts his head. “Well, considering this is my first time, I can’t form an opinion based on comparison. I can, however, assume that you are considered good, because this was an excellent first time. So to answer your question, I firmly believe that everyone should lose their virginity to you.”

 

“How can you even speak?” Grantaire kisses him, a little rough and messy. Enjolras likes it, way more than he’s willing to admit. “We banged for two hours.”

 

“And that affects my cerebrum how?”

 

“Stop,” Grantaire whines. Enjolras is starting to think he’s using “shutting him up” as an excuse to kiss him. Not that he minds, of course.

 

Enjolras shakes his head. “It’s part of my charm.”

 

“You’re not as charming as you think you are,” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras runs his hand down Grantaire’s chest, feeling him breathe. It’s calming. “So… how does this… what are we now?”

 

“What are we?” Grantaire looks confused. “I hope sex hasn’t changed anything about us. You aren’t a vampire, right?”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “No, I mean… are we, like, are we dating? Or, is this… I don’t know, is this a one-time thing?”

 

“I’d never allow sex with you to be a one-time thing.” Grantaire takes his hand. They do this a lot, but now it feels different. Much more intimate. Like it means something more than it once did. “I don’t like labels. But I want you to be happy, and that always comes first, so… Julian Enjolras, will you be my boyfriend?”

 

Enjolras laughs. “Only if you’ll be mine.”

 

“Then we’re dating.” Grantaire kisses him again. He seems to like this whole kissing thing.

 

“I don’t want you to do this just because I want to,” Enjolras says.

 

Grantaire smiles softly. “God, Enjolras, when will you learn I never do things just because you want me to?”

 

Enjolras returns his smile. He’s learned that lesson a while ago, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any doubts. “But isn’t it weird? Us dating?”

 

“Is it?” Grantaire tilts his head. “It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

 

Enjolras shrugs. “But… how do we... are we going to tell everyone?”

 

“Only if you want to, love.”

 

Enjolras shivers. He’s never really thought cheesy pet names were his thing, but, well, he was wrong.

 

“I just don’t know what they’ll say, you know?” Enjolras sighs. “Or how they’ll react.”

 

“Does it really matter?” Grantaire asks.

 

Enjolras nods. “Yeah, I mean, they’re still my friends. I care about what they think. But I don’t… I don’t want to lose them because of this.”

 

“And if they tell you they think it’s a bad idea, or that I’m not good for you, what would you do? Would you call this off? Would we go back to being just friends?”

 

Enjolras laughs and shakes his head. “I don’t think we ever were just friends.” He pauses. “I don’t think I’d break up with you because of that. I mean, it’s still my life.”

 

“So the sex is good,” Grantaire says, grinning.

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and pokes his shoulder. “The sex has nothing to do with this.”

 

Grantaire kisses him. “I feel personally attacked.”

 

“Hmm.” Enjolras yawns, then buries his face in Grantaire’s shoulder. He makes an extremely comfortable pillow.

 

“Are you tired, babe?” Grantaire asks.

 

_Babe? We’re not in tenth grade, geez._

“It’s late.”

 

Grantaire shifts so that he’s facing Enjolras. “Then go to sleep. You know I’ll stay with you. I always do.”

 

Enjolras nods. “Mmm. G’night.”

 

“Good night, _boyfriend_.”

 

-

 

When Enjolras wakes up, he finds Grantaire sitting on the bed, fully clothed, and reading a book. He’s biting his lip like he does when he’s focused. He doesn’t even seem to notice Enjolras.

 

“Is this what dating is? Waking up and getting ignored?” Enjolras teases.

 

Grantaire doesn’t even look up.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says dryly, and then throws a pillow at Enjolras.

 

Enjolras dodges the pillow. He shifts so that he’s leaning against Grantaire, and then gives him a soft kiss. This is what he meant. Grantaire seems to notice him then, but as soon as it’s over, he goes back to reading his book.   


“What are you reading?” Enjolras asks.

 

“How to get your boyfriend to shut up after sex,” Grantaire deadpans.

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Seriously.”

 

“The Odyssey.”

 

“Oh.” Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “And is that more interesting than, say-“

 

“Having sex for two hours again?” Grantaire puts his book down. “I don’t mind that.”

 

“I was going to say having breakfast,” Enjolras says slowly. “But sure.”

 

It doesn’t even take a minute for Grantaire to put the book away and have Enjolras pinned against the bed. He leans down to kiss him, but Enjolras places a finger on his lips.

 

“Question,” he says.

 

Grantaire groans. “Can you not do anything without talking?”

 

“One question.”

 

“Fine,” Grantaire relents.

 

“Who were you talking about a few nights ago, when you said there was someone you want to have sex with?” Enjolras asks.

 

Grantaire leans down and whispers, “You.”

 

Enjolras shivers. He hates the things Grantaire’s voice does to him. “Proceed.”

 

“Thank you,” Grantaire says.

 

Before Enjolras has the chance to say anything else, Grantaire’s kissing him, gentle and sweet and familiar. Maybe mornings won’t be so bad, if this is how they’re going to be.

 

-

Grantaire abruptly breaks off their kiss and sits up, looking at Enjolras as he is now – dishevelled and vulnerable. Enjolras can’t even breathe properly, and it’s only been ten minutes. If they _do_ keep this up for another hour and fifty minutes, he probably won’t be able to walk. That’s not really an issue, though. It’s Wednesday, and he’s on summer break, and he has no obligations except for the Les Amis meeting. But there’s still enough time that he doesn’t have to think about it.

 

Grantaire kisses him again, a little more rough than usual. “God, I’m going to f-“

 

Their eyes go wide as they hear the front door unlocked. Enjolras didn’t even anyone was out – or maybe Combeferre and Courfeyrac invited someone over without his knowledge. Or maybe they heard everything last night and left to give them some privacy. Honestly, he’d much rather it be a burglar.

 

“Hey, Enj? You awake yet?” Courfeyrac calls.

 

Grantaire sighs. “Your friends are lovely.”

 

“Yup,” Enjolras says, and just like that, the mood’s ruined.

 

They hastily retrieve their clothing and stumble into the hallway, trying to appear as if they weren’t just in the middle of sex. Combeferre and Courfeyrac haven’t noticed them yet – they’re busy talking about something and putting groceries away.

 

“Do you need help?” Grantaire asks.

 

Courfeyrac smiles at him. “Only if you want to make breakfast for Enj.”

 

“Sure,” Grantaire says.

 

He’s not as good at pulling off this “casual” thing as he thinks he is, but Enjolras really hopes that Combeferre and Courfeyrac won’t notice anything. Not that he wants to keep their relationship (can he call it that?) a secret – he wants them to know – but maybe now’s just not the right time. Maybe during the Les Amis meeting, he’ll tell everyone.

 

Grantaire looks at him with that gorgeous smile and those painfully blue eyes. “Hey, Enj, I could use your help.”

 

Whenever he’s with Grantaire, Enjolras can’t seem to give any thought to such things. It’s like (and god, he hates clichés) all his doubts have disappeared. So right now, he won’t think about when to tell his friends.

 

(He hopes they’ll figure it out on their own, because he doesn’t want to think about it at all.)

 

~

 

It’s been over half an hour, and Enjolras still hasn’t agreed to anyone’s ideas. He keeps making up stupid excuses why they can’t attend a protest, or volunteer at the animal shelter, or do something else. And frankly, Grantaire’s getting tired of this crap.

 

Combeferre sighs. “But I don’t get why we can’t go to a protest-“

 

“Because,” Enjolras snaps. “I don’t want something to happen.”

 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Do you honestly think I’d let something happen to you?”

 

“N-no,” Enjolras stutters. He’s blushing, and it’s rather adorable. “But that… that’s not the point.”

 

“Then what is?” Feuilly asks. He has this way of ascertaining his presence that Grantaire appreciates – almost like a god descending upon the earth, bellowing out humble commands. It’s a fitting image.

 

Enjolras shrugs. “I just… I just don’t really want to do anything.”

 

“You’re being stupid,” Eponine says.

 

“Well what do you suggest?” Enjolras snaps.

 

Eponine crosses her arms, frustrated. She’s probably had enough of this, too. “I don’t know. Maybe we could all go do something. It doesn’t have to be a protest or whatever – like, another trip down to Marseilles, or… or we could go shopping for a day. Just… as long as we’re all there. We haven’t done that.”

 

“A vote?” Courfeyrac asks, excitement written all over his face.

 

“No,” Combeferre says. “Let’s ask Enj what he wants to do.”

 

Grantaire, like everyone else, watches Enjolras. He has a feeling Enjolras is going to keep playing hard-to-get, but it can’t go on forever. Hopefully, he’ll pick something and put Grantaire out of his misery.

 

“I still don’t really want to do anything.”

 

Grantaire fists his hand in Enjolras’ shirt and slams him against the nearest wall. There’s definitely going to be an Enjolras-shaped dent there. He can’t stand any more of this “I’m an angsty teenager who hates socializing” crap, and he’s going to force Enjolras to choose something, if that’s what he has to do.

 

“You’re an idiot,” he says.

 

Enjolras blinks at him. “So?”

 

“Be nice and keep your friends company.”

 

Enjolras smirks suggestively and runs a hand down his chest. “But I’d much rather be-“

 

Grantaire slams him harder against the wall. He sees Enjolras’ eyes darken with lust, and god, no, not now. Now is such a horrible time.

 

“Enjolras.” It isn’t a question – it’s a command. Grantaire likes to think he’d make a very good general. “You’re going to go do something with your friends.”

 

Enjolras nods. He’s breathing faster – Grantaire never knows if that’s a good thing. “Okay.”

 

He leans in for a kiss, but Grantaire places a finger on his lips and stops him. Enjolras looks a little confused, but he isn’t questioning anything. He stopped questioning Grantaire a long time ago.

 

“Later,” Grantaire whispers, leaning in close.

 

He releases Enjolras and stalks over to the table where Les Amis are gathered. Everyone’s giving him wary looks, and he isn’t going to pretend he doesn’t notice them. He knows they’re scared of him. And he knows his sudden violence is rather out-of-the-blue (especially concerning Enjolras – although he looked much more aroused than scared).

 

“Do we have a decision yet?” Combeferre asks. He’s ignoring what just happened, then. Grantaire can live with that.

 

Enjolras takes a deep breath, his eyes closed. He’s trying to calm down. “I guess we can go to Dieppe. It’s closer.”

 

"Next weekend?" Bahorel suggests. Grantaire thought he was asleep.

 

"That shouldn't be an issue," Musichetta says.

 

Enjolras still looks like he doesn’t really want to do anything, but at least he agreed to something. Grantaire prides himself on his ability to force people to do things they wouldn’t by themselves. Anyone who says it isn’t an important skill is a liar.

 

They talk more about their weekend plans for Dieppe, but Grantaire isn’t really paying attention. He’s too busy watching Enjolras, who’s subconsciously biting his pen in an incredibly seductive way. And if someone catches him staring, well, that’s not the worst thing.

 

~

 

“Something’s changed,” Courfeyrac says, taking a seat beside Combeferre.

 

Combeferre nods. He’s too busy filing away all the Les Amis papers he brought to hold a proper conversation. Besides, the fact that “something’s changed” is entirely obvious. Combeferre just doesn’t know _what_ changed.

 

“Enjolras and Grantaire are…” Courfeyrac huffs, frowning. “They’re acting weird. Don’t you see it? Their dynamic’s changed.”

 

“I know,” Combeferre says, rolling his eyes.

 

He felt it, too, their changed dynamic. He can’t tell what, exactly, changed – but suddenly, they’re much closer, and it’s almost like they finally agreed that they’re friends. Except, maybe it seems a little more than that. Combeferre hopes he’s not the only one who saw their subtle touches, the way they look at each other.

 

_But what changed?_

-

 

“What happened between you two?”

 

Enjolras blinks at Courfeyrac, startled. He thought everyone already left – but apparently Combeferre’s still here, too. How much had he missed?

 

“What?” Enjolras asks.

 

Courfeyrac nudges his shoulder. “You know. What happened between you two?”

 

“Me and Grantaire?”

 

“Obviously,” Courfeyrac says.

 

Enjolras’ eyes go wide. They haven’t really talked about what they’d do in a situation like this. “Nothing happened.”

 

“Oh, sure, “nothing happened”. I don’t believe you.” Courfeyrac crosses his arms stubbornly. He’s probably not going to leave until he gets an actual answer. “What happened, Enj? Did you guys-“

 

Enjolras clears his throat. He doesn’t want Courfeyrac to finish that sentence, just because the thought of someone knowing they had sex makes im uncomfortable. And if Courfeyrac was about to ask whether they “got together”, then that’s even worse.

 

“You did.” Courfeyrac’s smile grows wider. “Oh my god, you guys… you guys-“

 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. He's desperately trying to appear cool and collected. “We what?”

 

“You had sex, didn’t you?” Courfeyrac whispers.

 

Enjolras knows there isn’t really a point in hiding it. “Yeah-“

 

“Oh my god.” It’s going to be an issue if Courfeyrac can’t seem to calm down. “Oh. My. God. Were you top or bottom?”

 

“Bottom,” Enjolras mutters, rolling his eyes.

 

Courfeyrac squeals. “How was he? Was it good? Ten out of ten? Definitely would fuck again?”

 

Enjolras lets himself smile a bit. “It was amazing, Courf. I’d give it an eleven out of ten, but… you know when you guys came back this morning?”

 

Courfeyrac nods.

 

“We were, uh…about to-“

 

“No shit!” Courfeyrac bangs his fist on the table. “I knew something was up. Ferre didn’t believe me. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I thought I was your best friend.”

 

“Well, it’s kind of, um, there’s more-“

 

“Hey,” Grantaire calls from where he’s sitting at the bar. He nods towards the door. “Boyfriend. Atropos wants to meet you.”

 

Courfeyrac chokes on air. “Boyfriend? _Boyfriend!?_ ”

 

“Yeah…” Enjolras suddenly feels very awkward.

 

Courfeyrac tries to signal something to Combeferre, but he isn’t paying attention. He’s too busy chatting with Musichetta. Now’s probably Enjolras’ best chance to leave unscathed, so he quietly sneaks away from the table.

 

“Wait!” Courfeyrac calls suddenly. “Enj, promise you’ll explain everything. And tell everyone else.”

 

Enjolras nods. He looks over at Grantaire, who’s waiting patiently by the door. Something tells him he’s putting more meaning into this – it’s probably just a casual hook-up, right? How can Grantaire, who’s been around for billions of years, want to date him?

 

Grantaire’s looking at him the same way he looks at Eponine – with that gentle intensity of his. So maybe love isn’t entirely out of the question.

 

Enjolras turns back to Courfeyrac. “I promise.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They finally got together! Yay! I told you it'd be a slow burn...
> 
> Come say hi or ask me questions about this fic on [ tumblr ](https://epo-nine.tumblr.com)!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took weeks to upload, I've been really busy. My love goes out to everyone who's still reading this, I appreciate y'all so much. <3  
> My new obsession is Sherlock, by the way. There are references to it. Probably too much. (also if you ship Johnlock let's cry together)  
> I hope you enjoy!!

They’re supposed to meet up with Atropos in a crowded bar, but Enjolras has no idea who she is. She could literally be anyone here, and Grantaire’s unwillingness to point her out isn’t helping.

 

“Atropos will find us when she wants to,” Grantaire says. He signals the bartender for a drink.

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. He isn’t exactly a patient person. “Can’t that be now?”

 

“Maybe she’s busy,” Grantaire offers.

 

Enjolras frowns. “Doing what?”

 

“Saving your asses.”

 

They both turn to look at Atropos. Her arms are crossed, and she’s giving them an unimpressed expression. Grantaire flashes her a smile, but she doesn’t return it.

 

“That’s very kind of you,” Grantaire says.

 

Instead of replying, Atropos brandishes a glistening sword out of thin air. She wordlessly hands it over to Grantaire, who only gives her a puzzled look. Enjolras is a bit confused, too. How will a sword help them?

 

"It used to belong to the Knights Templar,” Atropos explains. “An archaeologist found it. We wiped her memory, though – don’t worry. She’s not going to remember it.”

 

Grantaire stares at her. "A sword?"

 

“That’s your issue?” Enjolras whispers. He’s a little more concerned with the whole “we wiped her memory” thing.

 

Atropos ignores him. “At least be thankful we put effort into helping you out. I could always take it back, if you don’t want it.”

 

“No,” Grantaire says quickly. “No, it’s fine. We can use a sword.”

 

Atropos nods, a thin smile of satisfaction gracing her lips. She turns to look at Enjolras, her eyes cold and curious.

 

“And who have you brought with you?”

 

Grantaire puts a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “This is Enjolras.”

 

“The Chosen One.” Atropos narrows her eyes. “What does he know?”

 

“Um, well…” Grantaire bites his lip. “Nothing, apart from what I told him.”

 

Something about the way Atropos looks at him makes Enjolras uncomfortable. It's almost like he's not good enough for her - but what was she expecting, anyways? Enjolras knows there are things he should have remembered by now, but it’s not entirely his fault that he hasn’t. He can’t seem to concentrate on much lately, and pushing himself to remember this stuff is just too tiring. If Atropos isn’t okay with waiting, she can get herself another “Chosen One”.

 

"May I speak to you alone?” Atropos asks sharply.

 

It takes Enjolras a moment to realize she’s addressing Grantaire, not him. He’s probably missed out on something important, but that doesn’t really matter. He misses out on bits of conversations all the time, and it doesn’t even bother him anymore.

 

Grantaire glances at Enjolras and nods. “Sure.”

 

“You can’t be present for this,” Atropos says. She’s looking at Enjolras now.

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I know what ‘alone’ means.”

 

Without another word, Atropos and Grantaire disappear, leaving Enjolras alone in a crowded bar. Sighing, Enjolras heads back to his apartment. They probably aren’t going to come get him anytime soon.

 

~

 

Atropos – in her usual style – whisks them away to a rather empty beach. Grantaire can’t tell where they are, but he’s learned a long time ago that it would be a waste of time. Atropos hates when people learn her secrets.

 

“You could have chosen anywhere,” Grantaire says. “And yet you chose the place where two worlds collide.”

 

Atropos shrugs. “Worlds collide all the time. There’s nothing special about a beach.”

 

“No, there is. Because land is a world familiar to you – you being the figurative human in this scenario – but the minute you step into the ocean, you’re in unknown territory. The world beneath the surface and above are very different.” Grantaire pauses. “I think it’s cool.”

 

“I didn’t bring you here to write poetry.”

 

“Then why did you?” Grantaire asks.

 

He feels bad, leaving Enjolras behind like that. But Atropos said she wanted to talk to him, and it’d be pointless to refuse. Stubbornness never got him anywhere when it came to Atropos.

 

Atropos doesn’t say anything for a while. “You recently killed seven men.”

 

“Is that all you wanted to talk to me about?”

 

“No.” Atropos’s reply comes a little too quickly. She almost sounds… concerned. “Not at all. I’d just like to understand why you disrupted the natural order, without thinking about the consequences.”

 

“I’m Death. I _made_ the natural order. I can mess it up however I want to.”

 

Atropos suddenly turns around and fists her hand in Grantaire’s shirt. Her eyes blaze with icy fire. “Tell me why you killed those men.”

 

“I-“ Grantaire looks away. “They were going to kill Enjolras.”

 

Atropos raises an eyebrow. “The Chosen One? He’s supposed to die. Why should you try and stop that?”

 

“Because it isn’t…” Grantaire shakes his head. “It’s not-“

 

Atropos draws in a sharp breath and softly releases him. She takes a step back, her eyes wide. “I see.”

 

“You see what?”

 

Atropos nods to herself. “You have developed an emotional attachment to him, haven’t you?”

 

“No.” Grantaire’s trying desperately to get her to believe him, but it isn’t working. She sees past the obvious lie.

 

“Are you…?”

 

Grantaire doesn’t reply. He knows what Atropos means to say. He knows he can’t tell her anything, because she already thinks they’re in love. He knows she’s going to have him banished, or locked away, or she’ll replace him with Clotho. But he can’t bring himself to say anything.

 

“I see.” Atropos’ voice is soft, barely audible. “I’ll… I just- I need time.”

 

She’s gone before Grantaire can say something. And maybe it’s for the better.

 

~

 

When Enjolras gets back to his apartment, he finds Combeferre waiting for him on the couch. He looks like they’re about to have a serious conversation, but Enjolras isn’t really in the mood. He tries to pretend he doesn’t notice Combeferre, but it doesn’t last long.

 

“How was your meeting with Atropos?” Combeferre asks.

 

Enjolras shrugs, heading into the kitchen. He desperately needs some coffee. “Brief.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean,” Enjolras says, slamming the cabinet door harder than necessary. “She wanted to talk to Grantaire in private.”

 

“Oh.” There’s a pause, and Enjolras hopes their conversation is over. “Courf told me you guys…uh, that you-“

 

“We’re dating,” Enjolras clarifies.

 

Combeferre nods to himself. “Right. Okay. That’s… um, that’s good. As long as you, uh, you’re happy-“

 

“Is there something you want?” Enjolras snaps. He’s a little annoyed from being left behind, and the patience he had is long gone.

 

“No.” Combeferre taps the TV remote nervously. “I mean, not really. _I_ don’t want something – but, um, Dr. Lestrade thinks he should see you again. Like, a check-up, or-“

 

Enjolras narrows his eyes, confused. “Who?”

 

"Dr. Lestrade. Your doctor, when you were at the hospital.”

 

“Oh,” Enjolras says. “You finally learned his name.”

 

“Yeah, but that’s not… that’s not the point. He wants to see you again.”

 

“Well, I want a normal life.” Enjolras sighs, sipping his coffee. It’s a little hotter than usual, but he doesn’t care. “We don’t all get what we want.”

 

Combeferre looks like he isn’t following along. “So… you don’t want to do the check-up?”

 

“Obviously,” Enjolras mutters, rolling his eyes.

 

Combeferre shrugs. “Well, you’re doing it anyways. Next week, Friday, noon.”

 

Enjolras lets out an angry breath and sips his coffee. What if he had plans for Friday, huh? Why couldn’t Combeferre just ask for a good time? Why did he have to schedule it, anyways? Enjolras tries to stay calm, but it’s a bit hard. He hates when people do things for him.

 

“Stop scheduling my life for me,” he says crossly.

 

Combeferre shakes his head. “Nope.”

 

“Why not?” Enjolras asks, frowning.

 

“Because you won’t schedule it yourself.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything. He knows Combeferre’s right – if it was up to him, he wouldn’t have an appointment on Friday. But that doesn’t mean he can’t find Combeferre’s assertiveness frustrating. Sighing to himself, Enjolras sits down beside him on the couch and grabs the remote.

 

“So we’re good?” Combeferre asks. He sounds doubtful.

 

Enjolras sighs again, absentmindedly scrolling through Netflix. He hasn’t had much time lately to watch television. “We were never anything but good, Ferre.”

 

“Okay, just checking.” Combeferre pauses, looking at the television screen. “What do you want to watch? Courf said Sense8 is really good, but I haven’t-“

 

“Sherlock,” Enjolras interrupts. “I haven’t seen series four yet.”

 

"Okay," Combeferre says. He sounds a little confused, but he doesn’t object.

 

They watch the show in silence. Enjolras isn’t really focused on what’s going on, though – he’s much more interested in why Dr. Lestrade suddenly wants to see him again. It’s a bit suspicious, or maybe Enjolras has just spent too much time dealing with angels and demons in disguise. He’ll go anyways, just because Combeferre thinks it’s a good idea.

 

Maybe seeing a doctor won’t be so terrible.

 

-

 

“What did you two talk about?” Enjolras asks, leaning against the doorway.

 

Grantaire shrugs, pushing the blankets aside to make room for him. “Nothing important.”

 

“So you can tell me?”

 

Grantaire laughs quietly. He wraps his arms around Enjolras’ waist as soon as he gets on the bed, and his touch is comforting. Familiar. It seems like he’s trying to avoid the subject, but that’s not like him. Enjolras doesn’t want to think that maybe, just maybe, Grantaire missed him today.

 

“Atropos just wanted to know why I-“

 

“Why you killed those guys?” Enjolras asks.

 

Grantaire nods. He seems a little distant. “Yeah. That.”

 

“And?” Enjolras shifts so that he’s looking directly at Grantaire. There’s something addictive in those eyes (like a drug, just…less material) and Enjolras can’t seem to look away. “What about it?”

 

“I don’t think she likes you very much.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “How is that relevant?”

 

“I told her about-“ Grantaire pauses, playing with the edge of the blanket. “About us. And obviously she didn’t like that, so she can’t like you all that much, either. It’s simple logic.”

 

“Well, look at you, Sherlock Holmes. Using “simple logic” to explain obvious things to me.”

 

Grantaire leans forward until their noses are touching, smiling that peculiar smile of his. His eyes shine with flecks of bright gold. Definitely a magical, euphoria-inducing drug, those eyes. And Enjolras is getting addicted much too fast.

 

(Not that he’s complaining.)

 

“Does that make you my Watson?” Grantaire whispers.

 

Enjolras closes his eyes and leans until their lips are softly brushing, until he can feel Grantaire’s steady breath. “You wish.”

 

They're interrupted by a series of heavy knocks on the door. Enjolras lets out an irritated breath. He thought Combeferre and Courfeyrac knew what a closed door means, but obviously he was wrong. “Do not disturb” must not be in their vocabulary.

 

“Door’s open,” Enjolras mutters. He tries to ignore the amused smile Grantaire sends his way.

 

Courfeyrac’s head appears from behind the door. He gives them a smug look. “Did I interrupt something?”

 

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Enjolras snaps, just as Grantaire says, “Yes.”

 

“Well, okay.” Courfeyrac frowns. He probably already forgot what he came here to say. Enjolras sighs. Typical. “Take-out’s here.”

 

“You ordered take-out without us?” Enjolras asks, sitting up. He’s suddenly very interested.

 

Courfeyrac shrugs. “It’s just pizza.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and heads over to the living room, unceremoniously tripping on his pajamas on the way. Combeferre’s in the kitchen, searching the fridge for a can of soda.

 

“We got what you like,” he says.

 

Enjolras sighs, grabbing the pizza box. “Not the point.”

 

Combeferre just shrugs and opens his can. He waits until Courfeyrac comes back, and then they settle down on the couch with the remote. Enjolras wants to go join them, and maybe watch a movie or something, but he’s still a little angry about the whole check-up thing.

 

"They really want the best for you. You know that, right?"

 

Enjolras doesn’t even look at Grantaire. He’s not really in the mood to argue, let alone hold a conversation. So instead he puts away his anger – just for now – and heads over to join Courfeyrac and Combeferre. He knows it’s stupid to be angry over this, but he can’t help it. Too many people have been planning his life for him lately.

 

"What do you want to watch?" Combeferre asks.

 

Enjolras shrugs. “Whatever you put on.”

 

“Don’t be like that,” Grantaire says, leaning against the couch. He’s holding a mug of steaming coffee – Enjolras didn’t even know he liked it.

 

“Like what?”

 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Like yourself. You’re turning your check-up into a much bigger deal than it should be. So what if Combeferre scheduled it without asking you? It’s more important than anything else you might have had planned.”

 

“You’re not helping,” Enjolras grumbles.

 

He knows that Grantaire’s right, but he can’t admit it. Admitting that is basically losing, and losing has never been something Enjolras is good at.

 

"I'm not trying to help."

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything else. He gets it, he’s being a drama queen, he’s taking this too far. But all he wants is a bit of freedom, some choice in how his life goes. Apparently, that’s too much to ask.

 

Combeferre puts on another one of those “Mission Impossible” movies he seems to like so much. Enjolras barely pays attention to it – he’s too wrapped up in his own thoughts. Okay, so maybe there is no point in staying angry. Maybe he needs to put this stupid thing aside, think of the bigger picture. But what is the bigger picture, anyways? The war? He doesn’t really feel like thinking about that, either. And maybe it was kind of dumb to get upset because Combeferre and Courfeyrac ordered pizza without him, but it’s just one more thing to add to his “Things I Don’t Get a Say In” list.

 

“The problem, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, sitting down beside him. His eyes are narrowed. He’s focused on something. “Is you think you have time.”

 

Enjolras frowns. He understands, and he wishes he didn’t. “I know I don’t have time.”

 

“No, you don’t.” Grantaire shakes his head.

 

Enjolras sighs. “What does this have to do with anything?”

 

He turns to look at Grantaire, but he’s already gone. Enjolras rolls his eyes. He’s learned not to expect answers by now.

 

He tries to pay attention to the movie, but he can’t stop wondering what Grantaire meant.

 

_The problem, Enjolras, is you think you have time._

The more he thinks about it, the more obvious the answer should get. But Enjolras still has no idea what it means, and now he’s bothered by another – possibly more important – question.

 

_Time for what?_

 

-

 

Enjolras hasn’t been to the hospital in a long time. He’s almost forgotten what it looks like.

 

(But he can’t forget. Because that’s where he first saw Grantaire, where he took his first dose of those blue, blue eyes. He doesn’t want to forget.)

 

Dr. Lestrade is, apparently, a popular guy. In the past half hour, Enjolras has seen four patients go to see him – and one nurse, who he thinks wasn’t going for anything professional. Sighing, Enjolras checks his watch.

 

_12:45_.

 

His appointment was supposed to start forty-five minutes ago, and now he’s incredibly hungry. He probably deserves it, though. Combeferre did tell him to eat something before they left, but he thought they’d be out in time to grab lunch. He was wrong.

 

“Do you need me to come in with you?” Combeferre asks.

 

Enjolras shrugs. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a check-up.”

 

“Okay, but what if he tries to murder you?” Combeferre’s smiling. He thinks he’s funny, and it’s exhausting.

 

“That’s a terrible joke.”

 

Combeferre snorts. “It kind of is.”

 

Before Enjolras can respond, a nurse calls his name. He sighs in relief, grabs his coat, and follows her to a small room. The doctor isn’t in there. Obviously. They never are.

 

“Dr. Lestrade will be in to see you shortly,” the nurse says.

 

She closes the door behind her, leaving Enjolras alone. He suddenly feels uncomfortable and wishes Combeferre had come in with him. Just as Enjolras starts to think about how terrible this appointment’s going to be, his phone buzzes.

 

It’s a text.

 

From Eponine

 

**Meet me at the Musain. – R**

Enjolras laughs quietly, shaking his head. Of course Grantaire would just steal someone else’s phone to text him.

 

_I’m busy._

The reply is instantaneous. **Well, when you’re not busy. – R**

_Okay._

He’s still smiling at his phone like a pubescent boy-obsessed girl when Dr. Lestrade comes in. Enjolras doesn’t even remember him, and he was honestly expecting an old man – but instead, he gets a sort-of handsome young (ish) doctor. How long has this guy been out of med school? A year?

 

“Enjolras,” Dr. Lestrade says, holding his hand out. He looks genuinely pleased, although Enjolras doesn’t know why. “It’s wonderful to see you out and about.”

 

Enjolras frowns. “Uh, I’m… I don’t really go out.”

 

“I mean healthy.” The doctor holds his clipboard out, a pen dangling between his fingers. His eyes are narrowed at something on the paper. “How have you been?”

 

Enjolras shrugs. He hasn’t really thought about this. “I don’t know. Fine, I guess.”

 

Dr. Lestrade nods. “Have you felt any pains lately? In your chest, perhaps?”

 

“No, I’ve been… I’m fine. No pain.”

 

The doctor doesn’t really look like he believes him, but that isn’t Enjolras’ problem. “How have you been emotionally, Enjolras?”

 

Enjolras is thrown off-guard. He hadn’t been expecting the doctor to ask him about his state of mind – but maybe he should have.

 

“W-what?”

 

“Your friend was worried about you. He said you were having delusions, and nightmares. That the accident badly affected your emotional being, and your mental health.” The doctor shifts in his chair. “Is that still going on?”

 

Enjolras doesn’t know how to reply to that. What can he say, anyways? That he wasn’t having delusions, that Death resurrected him, that he’s fighting a war against angels? Or maybe he should mention his relationship with Grantaire – that’ll definitely surprise the doctor.

 

“I’m not delusional,” Enjolras says, arms crossed. “And I still have nightmares, but, you know, what can you do about that?”

 

“I can prescribe medi-“

 

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, I don’t need pills. I’m fine.”

 

“But you just said-“

 

“I’m fine, really.” Enjolras sighs. “I’ve got people.”

 

Dr. Lestrade raises an eyebrow, confused. “People?”

 

“To support me, or whatever,” Enjolras says.

 

He was hoping this appointment would be quick, but it’s straying too far into therapy session territory. Enjolras doesn’t really feel like sharing his feelings right now – and besides, nothing he says would make sense. How is he supposed to explain that his boyfriend is Death? Or that his friend’s father is possessed by an angel?

 

“Your friends?” The doctor asks.

 

“My boyfriend,” Enjolras corrects. It’s not that his friends aren’t there for him – well, not as much as they should be. Grantaire’s been doing a better job of making sure he’s okay, and that’s a little concerning.

 

Dr. Lestrade smiles. “Your friend never told me anything about a boyfriend.”

 

“We only started dating, um, two weeks ago.”

 

Dr. Lestrade writes something down. “Tell me about your relationship.”

Enjolras shrugs. “It’s good. I think. I’ve never… relationships are new to me. He’s fine, I’m fine, we’re fine. We, uh, we hang out a lot. He talks with my friends. It’s good.”

 

“And is he aware of your accident?”

 

Enjolras snorts. _More than you think._ “Yeah.”

 

“And has he ever tried to dominate your relationship?” Dr. Lestrade pauses to write something else down. “Has he ever manipulated you, or taken advantage of your emotional state?”

 

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “He’s not abusive, if that’s what you mean.”

 

"I just want to make sure this relationship’s good for you,” the doctor says. “Enjolras, I understand you had a rough year. And I understand you need the support and intimacy that comes with a relationship, but I have to know that it isn’t damaging your mental health.”

 

“It isn’t,” Enjolras grumbles.

 

Dr. Lestrade sighs. “Then maybe you should tell me more. About your relationship, about him, it doesn’t matter. Just give me something.”

 

Maybe talking to someone who isn’t a friend will help. Enjolras glances down at his watch. He can give this appointment a little more time.

 

-

 

“You’re happy in this relationship, but-?”

 

Enjolras frowns and glances over at the doctor. “Who said anything about a “but”?”

 

“You did,” he says.

 

Enjolras sighs. He’d be much more comfortable on a couch, but all this room has is two plastic chairs and one of those “beds”.

 

“Well, I mean, I _am_ happy. It’s just…” Enjolras rubs a hand across his face. “Sometimes I feel like I’m doing things just so he’s happy, you know?”

 

A shadow passes over Dr. Lestrade’s face. “Like what?”

 

“Like, last week he wanted me to meet his friend, but I didn’t want to. She didn’t sound like a good person, and she wasn’t even that nice to me. But I went anyways, because he wanted me to.”

 

“Is that all?” The doctor asks.

 

Enjolras sighs. “No. I don’t tell him about my nightmares anymore, because he gets concerned, and then it turns into this whole big deal. I just… he doesn’t have the happiest of jobs, so it’s nice when I get to see him happy, you know?”

 

“I think you should tell him about your nightmares if he’s concerned.” Dr. Lestrade nods to himself.

 

“Yeah, but… it’s complicated. I just don’t want to get on his bad side – not that if I tell him I will. It’s just… I get nightmares about things he’s done, and I don’t want to tell him I still think about that.”

 

Dr. Lestrade’s face turns pale. “Things he’s done?”

 

Enjolras waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s nothing bad. Just… not good? It’s not important.”

 

“Has he done any of these not good things to you?”

 

“What?” Enjolras shakes his head. “No. No, I told you, he’s good. Great. We’re fine.”

 

“Right.” Dr. Lestrade writes something down, his eyes overflowing with concern. “Do you think this desire to constantly please your boyfriend is a direct result of your childhood?”

 

Enjolras scoffs. “God, no. I had a terrible childhood.”

 

“Okay.” Dr. Lestrade stares at him like he’s an idiot. “So it is a result of your childhood. You see, if it really was terrible-“

 

“Which it was,” Enjolras interrupts.

 

“-Then you’d develop an obsessive need to make people happy – or pleased with you – as an adult. To avoid disappointment, or disapproval, or even future abuse.”

 

“He’s not abusive,” Enjolras says hotly.

 

Dr. Lestrade fixes his glasses. “And I never said he was. I’m saying you’re trying to _prevent_ abusive relationships by making sure everyone’s pleased with you. That they’re happy.”

 

Enjolras snorts. “No one’s ever really going to be pleased with me.”

 

“What makes you say that?” Dr. Lestrade’s frowning now. It’s disconcerting, how worried he is. What does he have to be worried about? Everything’s fine.

 

“My friends think I don’t “take care” of myself enough, that I “put them before myself” too much.” Enjolras pauses and takes a deep breath. Combeferre can be really annoying sometimes. “And they think I work too much, but that’s not true. I just like getting stuff done. And someone has to do the work, anyways. Oh, and then they complain that I don’t let them help.”

 

“Why don’t you let anyone else do the work?”

 

Enjolras shrugs. “Les Amis would collapse if I wasn’t in control.”

 

“So you like having control?”

 

“I never said that,” Enjolras mutters.

 

Dr. Lestrade continues writing on his papers. It looks like he’s running out of space. “Do you ever think you might have communication issues with your friends?”

 

“We communicate fine.”

 

“That’s not what it seems like,” Dr. Lestrade says. “It seems like you’re denying that you guys can’t communicate properly.”

 

Enjolras crosses his arms. “I’m not denying anything. We don’t have communication issues, they just don’t help.”

 

“Okay, fine.” The doctor checks his watch and sighs. “Listen, we’re already overtime by half an hour. I’ve got other patients to see. I’ll type this all up, and you can go wait, and then I’ll let you know what conclusion I’ve come to. Sounds good?”

 

“Conclusion?”

 

Dr. Lestrade points at his clipboard. “About your mental state. So I can help you find the best treatment, or therapist, whichever you prefer.”

 

Enjolras blinks at him. “I don’t need a treatment.”

 

“Give me ten minutes, Enjolras. If I’m not out by then, send one of the nurses to come get me.”

 

Without saying anything else, Enjolras heads back out to the waiting room. Combeferre’s still there, reading an old edition of some science magazine. There’s a Coke can and a chocolate bar on the table beside him.

 

“That was long,” Combeferre says, glancing at Enjolras over his magazine.

 

Enjolras sits down beside him, arms crossed. “It’s not over.”

 

“Okay.” Combeferre hands him the chocolate bar and the can. “There’s a vending machine down the hall. I thought you might want something.”

 

Enjolras offers a small smile. “Thanks. I need caffeine.”

 

“You always need caffeine,” Combeferre says. He’s smiling, even though he’s trying to hide it.

 

Enjolras barely has time to choose a tabloid to browse through when Dr. Lestrade comes running up to him, a few papers in his hands. Enjolras sighs. More than one paper is never a good thing.

 

“I’ve come to a conclusion,” Dr. Lestrade says, breathing heavily. So he’s not in great shape, then. “And you’re probably not going to like it.”

 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Okay, what’s your conclusion?”

 

“I hate to tell you this, but I think you’re-“

 

-

 

“I am _not_ codependent,” Enjolras says, slamming the door behind him.

 

Combeferre holds his hands up defensively. “Whoa, Enjolras, calm down.”

 

“I can’t!”

 

Musichetta stares at them from behind the bar. She doesn’t like it when they’re loud and obnoxious, but Enjolras can’t help it right now. He’d calm down if he could, but Dr. Lestrade’s “diagnosis” is making him incredibly angry. Codependent? How did he even come to that conclusion?

 

“Can we not do this here?” Combeferre asks. He sounds desperate.

 

“No!” Enjolras turns to face him and waves the papers. “No, this can’t fucking wait! I’m not codependent, I’m not.”

 

Combeferre sighs. “I get that-“

 

“Look at this! Look at it!” Enjolras sits at an available table and throws the papers down carelessly. “Look at all this bullshit. “Treatment options”? “Symptoms of codependency”? “How to break off codependent relationships”? Bullshit! Bull. Shit. All of it. I’m not codependent.”

 

Combeferre sits across from him. "I know that, Enj. I get it. But just because he thinks something about you doesn’t mean it’s true. What if he said you were straight? Would you get this worked up?”

 

Enjolras lets out an angry breath. “I’d get even more worked up. You know that.”

 

“Okay, bad example. But my point still stands. Don’t put too much thought into this if you don’t agree with it.”

 

“But he wants me to go to a support group!” Enjolras whines and buries his face in his arms. “I don’t want to go to a support group, Ferre.”

 

Combeferre sighs. “Then don’t go. It’s simple.”

 

“You’re right, I need to stop thinking about it.” Enjolras sits upright and rests his chin on his hand. He avoids Combeferre’s gaze, opting to look outside instead. “But what if he’s right? What if I… what if I _am_ codependent?”

 

Combeferre shrugs. “I don’t know, Enj. I really don’t know.”

 

Sighing to himself, Enjolras pulls his phone out to check if he got any new texts. Nothing.

 

**Meet me at the Musain. – R**

Enjolras frowns. If Grantaire wanted to meet him, why isn’t he here?

 

_I’m at the Musain now. Where are you??_

He spends the afternoon discussing mundane things, like cats and recently read books, with Combeferre. Grantaire doesn’t show up.

 

-

 

When Grantaire finally gets back to the apartment, it’s the middle of the night, and everyone’s asleep. Everyone except for Enjolras, that is. He’s still wide awake, watching Grantaire as he takes his shirt off and throws it on a nearby chair.

 

“Where were you?” Enjolras asks, his words slurring together.

 

Grantaire glances at him. “Out.”

 

_ Baradiel requested to see you _

_Grantaire sighs down at his phone. He wonders how long it’ll take the angels to realize that he’s not going to hand Enjolras over. He fires off a quick text to Atropos before heading to Baradiel’s office, in the outskirts of Paris._

_The minute he walks into the building, a young human ushers him up to the office. Baradiel’s waiting for him, giving him a scrutinizing glance._

_“Let me guess,” Grantaire says, taking a seat in front of his desk. “You want me to give you Enjolras. That’s not going to happen.”_

_Baradiel grins, his teeth forming an eerie crescent, and clasps his hands together. “I have a better offer for you.”_

 

“Out where?”

 

Grantaire climbs into bed beside him and slips an arm around Enjolras’ waist. “Nowhere important.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t seem impressed. He narrows his eyes. “What were you doing?”

 

_“What’s your offer, then?” Grantaire asks._

_Baradiel slides a contract across the desk. “All you have to do is tell us everything the Chosen One tells you. We’ll pay you €5000 every time you report to us.”_

_“I have no use for money,” Grantaire says._

_“Then we’ll add in whatever else you want.” Baradiel isn’t willing to take “no” as a valid answer. “Maybe a few girls.”_

_“Boring.”_

_Baradiel sighs. “I suggest you take our offer, Azrael.”_

_“I’ve got one condition,” Grantaire says._

_Baradiel’s face lights up. “Name your price.”_

“Nothing,” Grantaire says, maybe a little too quickly. He doesn’t want to stress Enjolras out even more, and besides, these constant offers aren’t really his business.

 

Enjolras snorts. “Why don’t I believe you?”

 

“Because you’re smart.”

 

“Grantaire.” Enjolras sighs. He’s sitting up now. “You asked me to meet you at the Musain. Why didn’t you show up?”

 

Grantaire shrugs. “I was busy.”

 

_Grantaire paces around the office, tapping his fingers together. He knows Baradiel’s trying his best to seem scary and threatening, but he’s really not. He’s very low on Grantaire’s list of worries._

_“One condition,” Grantaire says. He turns to face Baradiel. “You die, and I don’t accept your offer.”_

_Baradiel frowns. “I don’t like your condition. It’s-“_

_“Too bad.” Grantaire takes one step forward. And another. And another. He walks until he’s as close to Baradiel as he can get. “You don’t get a say.”_

_Before Baradiel can object again, Grantaire slams him into the wall. There’s a loud thud, and the body falls to the ground, leaving a trail of dark blood on the wall. It’s such a shame, really. All that blood just ruins his nice, white room. Grantaire nods to himself, smiling, and walks out of the building. No one questions him._

“Busy doing what?” Enjolras asks.

 

Grantaire tugs him closer, tightening his grip on Enjolras’ waist. He might as well tell him now, before someone else does. “I’ve been getting a lot of offers lately. From angels.”

 

"What kind of offers?"

 

“They want me to, uh, to give you up,” Grantaire says. “For money, or safety, or whatever.”

 

Grantaire can see the gears turn in Enjolras’ head, the way he starts to understand what he just said. The way the human mind works fascinates him.

 

“And...” Enjolras pauses, hesitant. “And did you take any of them?”

 

Grantaire scoffs. “God, no. I’d never do that.”

 

"I know," Enjolras says, his voice soft. “Just making sure.”

 

It doesn’t take very long for him to fall asleep, his breath deep and calming. Grantaire doesn’t need to sleep, but he likes it. During those few hours, he can disconnect from reality, and get a little rest. But tonight, he can’t seem to will himself to go to sleep. He keeps thinking about the offers, and the angels, and what would happen if he did take one of them.

 

Grantaire’s finally about to fall asleep when he gets a text.

 

**We’ve got an offer. And it won’t harm you in any way.**

Grantaire narrows his eyes at his phone. He isn’t really interested in hearing about this offer, but he _is_ interested in finding out who it’s from. So why not give whoever they are the benefit of the doubt?

 

_Go on._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try and upload the next chapter sooner, I promise. Come send me an ask or say hi on my [ tumblr ](http://epo-nine.tumblr.com)!!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has it really been more than a month? I'm so sorry it took so long!! Supernatural season 13 came out, and so did season 2 of Stranger Things, so I've been super busy watching that. And I also, finally, read The Secret History... please, I need people to talk to about it. Please tell me I'm not the only one who ships Richard and Henry (my son!!). 
> 
> So. My love goes out to everyone who's still reading this. Y'all are amazing!!! <3

Grantaire downs another glass of whiskey and slams the glass down on the table. The guy he’s supposed to meet isn’t even here yet, and he’s already on his fifth glass. Sighing, Grantaire checks his conversation with the mystery man – didn’t they schedule for one?

 

**Meet me at Café Charbon, as soon as you can.**

 

_ Does one work for you? _

 

**I’ll be there.**

 

_ How will I know who to look for? You’ve told me nothing about yourself. _

 

**I’ll find you.**

 

_ What’s your offer, anyways? _

 

**If you show up, you’ll find out. What’s the fun in spoiling the surprise?**

 

Even though he’s completely immersed in their conversation, Grantaire hears the patter of approaching footsteps, and he sees the man – no, men – standing by his table. 

 

“You never said anything about other people,” Grantaire says, tapping his fingers against the side of his empty glass. 

 

One of the men takes the seat across from him and extends a hand. “Back-up, Azrael. I know better than to come here alone.”

 

“I feel like we’ve met before. Who are you, again?” Grantaire shakes the man’s hand, smiling internally. He knows he’s scared, and it’s such a glorious feeling. 

 

“Alastor.” 

 

Grantaire offers a half-hearted smile. “It’s been too long, my friend. When was the last time we saw each other?”

 

“1347,” Alastor says. 

 

“1347,” Grantaire repeats. He misses those days when doing his job was simple, and he wasn’t concerned with “morality”. 

 

Alastor passes Grantaire’s glass to one of his bodyguards. “Bring it back with whiskey. And get a second one for my friend.” Once the bodyguard leaves, Alastor turns to Grantaire. “We’re not here to reminisce about the old days, are we? Let’s talk business.”

 

“I still don’t know anything about your offer.” 

 

"I know about the offers you’ve gotten from the angels.” Alastor pauses. He’s always been dramatic. “Mine is much better.”

 

“Do tell,” Grantaire says.

 

Alastor leans forward, something dark gleaming in his green eyes. “All you have to do is agree to getting possessed by one of my demons. They’ll do the dirty work – collect information, spy on the Chosen One, you know. And in return, we’ll protect you from the angels.” 

 

Grantaire narrows his eyes and tilts his head. If he had no heart, he’d definitely take the deal – it’s as good as they get. The demons do the dirty work, and Enjolras would never have any evidence to blame him. But even if Grantaire did take the deal, there isn’t much of a chance it’ll work. Demons can only possess weak people, and he doesn’t really qualify for that. 

 

“Well?” Alastor’s getting impatient. It’s annoying. 

 

“How would you get one of your demons to possess me?” Grantaire asks. “I’m not weak.”

 

Alastor’s face lights up, and he pulls a small needle out of his coat pocket. “A strong dose of morphine, and as much alcohol as we can get our hands on.”

 

“Neither has any effect on me.” Grantaire loves playing games. It’s such a nice way to pass the time. 

 

“Then we’ll give you more morphine,” Alastor says, desperation straining his voice. “It’s simple, Azrael. You don’t need to worry about how we’ll get it done.”

 

Grantaire shrugs. "What else will I do in my spare time?" 

 

When Alastor’s bodyguard returns with two glasses of amber whiskey, Grantaire passes one over to Alastor and takes the over for himself. He wishes alcohol did have an effect on him – it’d make this meeting much easier to live through. 

 

“Do we have a deal?” Alastor asks, downing half his glass. He extends his hand. 

 

Grantaire narrows his eyes, trying to make it seem like he’s thinking. He has to admit, this offer appeals to him more than the others – but if he were to take it, wouldn’t that be betrayal? Well, what does it matter? Morality has never been one of Grantaire’s virtues. 

 

“Give me time to think about it,” he says. 

 

Alastor smiles. “At least I got something out of you. I look forward to hearing your answer, Azrael.”

 

Before Grantaire can say anything else, Alastor leaves the bar, his bodyguards trailing behind him. Grantaire feels - well, he almost feels regret. Regret for even showing up, for listening to some lowly demon’s petty offer. But regret is a human emotion, and Grantaire doesn’t waste his time on those. He sighs, swirling his drink in his glass. What would Enjolras say?

 

_ “Maybe, if you let him believe you’re interested, you can find out what the demons want,” he’d say. He’d have his arms crossed, and his eyes would blaze with determination. “That’s a good thing. It’d help us out.” _

 

Except, Grantaire knows Enjolras would never really say that. He’d yell and kick his wall and probably punch someone, and then he’d cry because why would Grantaire do this? Why would he make a deal with a demon, and sell them out? 

 

Grantaire sighs again, eyes focused on the streetlights outside. He’s going to need more alcohol. 

 

~

 

"No, Ferre, I told you, all my-“ Enjolras sighs. “No, I didn’t – Yeah, you did! You put all my flannels in the laundry yesterday, even though I asked to have them for this weekend.” 

 

Combeferre starts rambling on about how he “didn’t give enough notice beforehand”, and some other crap. Enjolras rolls his eyes and slides his phone down on his shoulder so he can finally start packing. “Okay, fine, Courf did the laundry, but still – you should’ve told him! Why? Don’t-“

 

Enjolras pauses in the middle of his sentence, his eyes wide. Grantaire’s standing by his window, head tilted. Enjolras points to his phone, but Grantaire still looks confused. 

 

“Just, hold on, I’ll talk to you later – no, Ferre, it’s fine, I’ll manage. Yes, I have other jackets – it shouldn’t be that cold, I’ll be fine. Bye.”

 

Enjolras hangs up before Combeferre can object again. He sighs, crosses his arms, and looks back at Grantaire. 

 

“Did you sign the divorce papers yet?” Grantaire teases.

 

Enjolras lets out an irritated breath. “Did you?”

 

“I was talking about you and Ferre.”

 

Enjolras nods and throws two clean (he thinks) shirts into his bag. “Right. Why are you here?”

 

“No reason,” Grantaire says quickly. He clears his throat. “Just wanted to, uh, say bye. Before you go. On your trip.”

 

“Okay?” Something’s not making sense. Grantaire’s been acting kind of weird all week, but that’s probably because of the constant stream of offers – did he get another one today? “What’s up? You’ve been really weird lately.”

 

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s not my fault you interpret my behaviour as weird.”   
  


Enjolras narrows his eyes, frowning. “I never said anything about it being your fault.”

 

“I’m clarifying.” Grantaire’s really defensive, for some reason. Something’s definitely up, but Enjolras doesn’t know what. 

 

“Right. Okay.” Enjolras crosses his arms, an eyebrow raised. Just because they’re having sex doesn’t mean Enjolras has to buy into his bullshit. And he’s obviously hiding  _ something _ \- the question is what? 

 

“You don’t believe me,” Grantaire says. He sounds a little hurt. Disappointed. 

 

Enjolras shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “Why should I? God, Grantaire. You’ve been so weird these past few days, and I just want to know why. Is that too much to ask?”

 

“No.” Grantaire sighs. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I’ve just been getting a lot of offers. And I… I didn’t want you to get worried, so I didn’t tell you.”

 

Enjolras suddenly feels a lot warmer. He hates dwelling on the thought that Grantaire makes him feel things, especially  _ nice  _ things. He wonders how much time he has left to feel like this.

 

_ The problem, Enjolras, is you think you have time. _

 

“I’m not worried,” Enjolras says. He walks up to Grantaire until they’re sharing the same breath. He’s lost, completely and truly, in those eyes. “I know you’ll handle it.”

 

Grantaire wraps an arm around his waist and cups his face with his other hand. He pulls Enjolras closer. There’s no space between them. “I didn’t want to ruin your trip.”

 

Enjolras closes his eyes. “You couldn’t even if you tried.”

 

Instead of replying, Grantaire tugs him into a soft, open-mouthed kiss. Enjolras fists his hands in Grantaire’s shirt, instinctively pulling him towards his (their) bed. He’s so desperate for something - anything - to happen, even though he’s supposed to be packing, and his door’s still open, and someone could walk in at any moment-

 

“You’re beautiful,” Grantaire whispers, his voice low and hoarse. He looks at Enjolras as if he was all the light in this world, and it’d be endearing if Enjolras didn’t want to get this part over with so badly. 

 

“I hope that’s-” Enjolras draws in a sharp breath as Grantaire’s hands ghost over his skin. He wasn’t really expecting them to get farther than some kissing, but he’s definitely not complaining. “-Not the reason you’re, uh-”

 

“Nope,” Grantaire says, biting his lower lip. His hands hover above the button on Enjolras’ jeans, dangerously close. 

 

“Then why?” Enjolras asks, his breath heavy and broken. 

 

He knows it’s probably terrible timing - who asks why someone’s having sex with them while they’re in the act? - but he suddenly feels like it’s the most important thing in the world. He needs to know, and it has to be now. 

 

Grantaire swiftly takes off Enjolras’ shirt and tosses it aside, and then slowly starts to unbutton his jeans. He has no mercy. Normally, Enjolras doesn’t mind painful slowness, but today he has limited time, and he really needs answers, and he’s starting to think that maybe they should close the door. 

 

“There’s no one else here,” Grantaire whispers against his lips. “Don’t worry.”

 

Grantaire’s doing things with his mouth, and Enjolras can’t find a way to articulate his thoughts. He closes his eyes. “Question.”

 

This time, Grantaire talks against Enjolras’ jawline, one hand resting against the side of his throat. “What about it?”

 

“Answers,” Enjolras chokes out. He hates that he can’t speak properly, but his mind’s way too occupied to form a complete sentence. 

 

Grantaire abruptly pulls back, just enough so that they’re still close. He’s looking directly into Enjolras’ eyes. Enjolras can’t look away. He’s completely immersed, body and soul. 

 

_ His eyes are the ocean, and I’m drowning.  _

 

“Why?” Enjolras asks again. His voice is quiet, soft. 

 

Grantaire hooks two fingers under his chin and tilts his head up so that Enjolras really has no choice but to look at him. He’s scared that he ruined the moment, because this is the farthest they’ve gotten in three days, and he needs that reassurance that they’re okay, they’re still together, they’re happy. 

 

“Because,” Grantaire says. He’s smiling that gentle, no-more-worries smile of his. “I love you.” 

 

Enjolras’ breath hitches in his throat. His eyes go impossibly wide. He wasn’t expecting that, of all things. How is he supposed to respond? How is he going to make sure he doesn’t screw this up? He knows what he needs (wants, desperately) to say, but maybe now’s not the right time. Maybe it’s too soon.

 

_ Maybe, I just don’t want to let him in. Maybe the worst part of letting someone into your life is the knowledge that one day you’re going to have to let them go.  _

 

Enjolras wants to say it. But right now, he’s not brave enough to let someone in. Especially if that person’s going to leave him one day, and go on for eternity and fall in love with other passing souls. So instead of saying anything, Enjolras pulls Grantaire in for a long, slow kiss. 

 

_ I love you _ . 

 

Grantaire continues kissing him, gently pushing Enjolras against the bed. There’s something sentimental in the way his hands trace patterns on his skin, how his eyes seem to shine a little brighter. That ethereal glow Enjolras fell in love with (he can’t allow himself to think about that - well, maybe he can make an exception) is back. 

 

_ I love you. _

 

He lets himself drown in the present, and forget about everything else. About his friends. About the trip. About the offers. All that matters is that Grantaire loves him. 

 

And maybe one day, Enjolras will be brave enough to say he feels the same. 

 

_ I love you. _

 

-

 

Enjolras wakes up and stretches, feeling the familiar warmth of his blankets. He doesn’t know what time it is - afternoon, probably, and he’s definitely late to his coffee date with Combeferre. If he throws something on really quickly, maybe they’ll still have time to disc uss hotel room arrangements-

But then, as he sleepily sits up, he spots Grantaire, folding his clothes, and leaving seems like a terrible idea.

“You don’t have to do that,” Enjolras yawns, running a hand through his hair. 

Grantaire looks up and offers a soft smile. He gently places a perfectly-folded shirt in an open suitcase. “Well, you were sleeping, and you’re leaving tonight, so someone had to do it. I don’t mind.”

Enjolras tries to ignore his feelings (familiar, and yet foreign), and opts to pretend it doesn’t mean anything. But of course it does. It means a lot of things. “How out of it was I?”

“You fell asleep pretty quickly,” Grantaire says. He folds a pair of Enjolras’ jeans, his hands momentarily brushing the button. Enjolras blushes. “And it’s been four hours, so… I’d say pretty out of it. Why? Is that a bad thing?”

Enjolras shakes his head. He remembers everything that happened before he fell asleep, but he doesn’t want to bring it up. “No, no, it’s fine. Is Ferre here yet?”

“No.” Grantaire folds another shirt. He narrows his eyes at the open suitcase, frowning. What’s he thinking about? “But he did leave a message. He was kind of annoyed you ditched him - which, by the way, you should tell me about in the future - and he said that you’re going with Eponine today. Something about car issues.”

Enjolras is a little confused. “He doesn’t have a car. We use Bahorel’s.”

“Well, I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“Um.” Enjolras glances over at his alarm clock.  _ 16:27. _ “I… Ep’s probably going to, uh, pick me up. Soon. So I should… um-”

“Enjolras.” Grantaire’s paused his folding, arms crossed. He looks like he wants to have a serious discussion, and Enjolras isn’t really in the mood. He never is. “Do you-”

“Remember? What happened?”

Grantaire shrugs and nods. So does Enjolras.

_ “I just wasted an hour,” Enjolras says, staring up at the ceiling. _

_ “You didn’t  _ waste  _ it. You used your time effectively.”  _

_ Grantaire starts to tug him back, arms wrapped possessively around his waist. He tugs until Enjolras is practically on top of him, and then he smiles his gloriously addictive post-sex smile.  _

_ “No, I wasted it.” Enjolras gives him a quick kiss and pulls back before Grantaire can even think of trying something. _

_ As per usual, Enjolras underestimates him, and Grantaire places one hand on the back of his neck and draws him in for a long, painfully slow kiss. He knows that this is Grantaire’s weird way of asking for a second (third? he isn’t really sure) round, and normally he’d say yes, but he does have some actual things he needs to do. _

_ “Grantaire,” Enjolras whines. He doesn’t really want to sit up, so he pulls back enough so that they’re technically not kissing. “I need to start packing.” _

_ Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “If you have to do things, why did you agree to have sex?” _

_ Enjolras decides to be brave. The timing feels right.  _

_ “Because,” he says softly, tracing circles on Grantaire’s shoulder. “I love you.” _

_ Grantaire’s face lights up, and his smile glows a little brighter. Enjolras hopes he said the right thing. _

_ “You can’t just take my lines,” he whispers, tightening his grip on Enjolras. _

_ Enjolras rests his head in the crook of Grantaire’s shoulder and places a kiss on his collarbone. He feels much better, now that he’s said it. Like he isn’t hiding it anymore. _

_ “As long as I mean them, sure I can.” _

Grantaire sits down on the edge of the bed, facing Enjolras. “Did you mean it?”

Enjolras frowns. He hears doubt in Grantaire’s voice, and he doesn’t like it. Is he that terrible at showing he loves someone that they doubt he’s sincere? He takes a deep breath and nods.

“Yeah.” His voice breaks. “Yeah, I mean it. I love you, dammit.”

“Dammit?” Grantaire asks, smiling. 

Enjolras returns his smile. He gestures for Grantaire to come closer. He does. “It’s a terrible thing to fall in love.”

“I don’t think I really agree with you,” Grantaire says, his voice low. He draws Enjolras in, hands resting on the sides of his face. 

“You don’t?”

Enjolras knows he has to leave soon, that Eponine’s going to be pounding on his door impatiently. He knows he still has a lot to pack, but he just can’t seem to resist Grantaire. He’s never been able to. That’s probably not going to change. 

“I don’t,” Grantaire whispers. 

Just as he leans in to kiss Enjolras, there’s a loud knock on the door. Followed by another. Enjolras sighs. Eponine’s timing is really terrible. Couldn’t she have waited another twenty minutes? An hour, maybe? There’s another loud knock, and some yelling Enjolras can’t quite make out. 

“Have I ever told you I hate Eponine?” Grantaire asks. 

Enjolras shakes his head, smiling. “No. You love her.”

“Not as much as I’ll love you if you ignore her.” 

Enjolras sighs. He briefly glances at the door. “You know I can’t.”

“I know,” Grantaire says. He looks a little disappointed. Enjolras is, too. “I’ll see you when you come back. Have fun on your trip, okay? Don’t think about the war.”

Enjolras nods, and with another sigh, goes to open the door. Eponine wastes no time in yelling at him to finish packing, and he isn’t really in the mood to argue with her, because technically, he still has an hour before they’re supposed to leave. 

He’s only a little sad when he goes back to his room and Grantaire isn’t there. 

~

**We should talk.**

It’s a simple message, really. Atropos isn’t asking for an official meeting. She isn’t tricking him into believing that something urgent has happened, as she’s done so many times before. She’s asking to talk. 

Grantaire narrows his eyes at his phone, placed neatly on the table. He’s at the Musain, at a dark, lonely booth at the back, where no one can bother him. He isn’t even sure Musichetta knows he’s here - but why should she? What does it matter? Grantaire’s phone beeps again.

**Please.**

He sighs. 

_ What about? _

It takes a moment for Atropos to respond.  **You know.**

_ No, I don’t.  _

**Just, please, let’s talk. I’ll be in Shiretoko.**

This time, Grantaire doesn’t respond. He knows where to find Atropos - it’s obvious, really. Her favourite place in the whole world. He still doesn’t understand why she lives in New York if her heart lies in Hokkaido. But maybe today he’ll find out.

-

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Atropos says. She’s hugging her knees to her chest, one foot cautiously dipped in the warm waters of Kamuiwakka Falls. 

Grantaire shrugs, crossing his arms. “I didn’t think I would, either.”

Atropos lifts her head and blinks at him with large, amethyst eyes. “Then why did you?”

“Because. You wanted to talk.” Grantaire sits down beside her, staring at their reflections in the water. “So talk.”

Atropos is quiet for a moment, stirring up small waves with her foot. “You broke a rule.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “You say that like I haven’t broken one before.”

“That’s different,” Atropos says, her voice quiet. “Last time, you- That was different. Different rule, different time.”

“It’s a worse rule to break.”

Atropos shakes her head violently. “No, it isn’t. Murdering millions of people because of a minor inconvenience-”

“It wasn’t minor,” Grantaire corrects. “They were being annoying.”

“Yeah, but then we created them all over again.” Atropos sighs. “That was a very long time ago, Azrael. The human race has no recollection of that ever happening, so it doesn’t matter. But this? This is worse. You can’t fall in love with a mortal, you just can’t. Because if you fall in love, you won’t let them go, and you’ll disrupt the natural order. Just look at what happened with that girl-”

“Don’t bring Eponine into this,” Grantaire hisses. 

Atropos shrugs. “I’m just saying. I get it, I really do. You’ve spent a long time with humans, and their instincts and urges are getting to you. That’s understandable. But you have to remember that you’re above those urges, that love-”

“That love is what?” Grantaire narrows his eyes at Atropos. He feels his veins burn with fire. “That I don’t deserve to be loved? That I’m not allowed to feel sentiment and affection towards humans?”

“No-”

“Atropos. Stop.”

Atropos sighs. She knows she’s done something wrong, but she doesn’t care. Grantaire’s had enough of being her pawn, of playing her games. He wants to do something he wants, just this once. And if that means going against everything Atropos has ever said, then so be it. Isn’t it time he gains a little freedom?

“I’m not trying to-” Atropos pauses. “Please, just listen to me. I only want… you can’t stray too far.”

“What?” Grantaire’s a little confused now. What does Atropos mean?

Atropos looks like she doesn’t want to answer. “A long time ago, after the massacre, I chose a path for you. It was difficult, but we managed to control you. Make sure you didn’t turn to… Azrael, I’ve never told you this. But maybe you already know. When I first created you, you had no soul. No emotion. You were my cold, heartless assassin. But it was so hard to make sure you were only killing who you needed to, and… well. We had to train you, give you a conscience. And my rules… they’re only here to keep you in check. Do you understand?”

Grantaire tenses. He understands. And maybe he has known this, for a long time: that unquenchable urge to kill, the thrill of power he gets whenever he holds someone’s life in his hands. He knows. Atropos wasn’t wrong to try and “tame” him, keep him under control. But how long does it have to go on for? They all know the human race is going to hell, so shouldn’t he help move it along? 

_ This is exactly what she feared.  _

“How do I get rid of my conscience?” Grantaire asks. 

Atropos blinks in surprise. “You can’t.”

“Then what’s the point of having one?” Grantaire stands up and shakes his head. He doesn’t feel like talking to Atropos anymore. He just needs some time to himself. “Never mind. I should go.”

“Wait.” Atropos reaches her arm out, but she doesn’t make any move to stop him. “Don’t do anything you’d regret.”

Grantaire flashes a grin. “Me? I don’t regret anything I do.”

And for the first time, Atropos looks a little scared, and it’s deliriously thrilling. Grantaire never wants to let that feeling go.

~  


 

Enjolras taps the edge of his seat, watching the cars outside.  _ Tourner Dans Le Vide _ is playing on the radio, and he feels like he’s heard it before, but radios have a tendency to play the same songs over and over again. Or maybe he just hasn’t been paying enough attention.

“Well, we’re here.”

Enjolras frowns. The car’s suddenly stopped moving. Eponine gives him a worried look through the car mirror. 

“Enjolras?” She asks. “We’re, uh, stopping for dinner.” 

Enjolras nods, even though he doesn’t remember anyone telling him this. “It’s too early for dinner.” 

“It’s-” Eponine pauses. “We should eat now, anyways. It’ll be late by the time we get to Dieppe.”

Instead of replying, Enjolras follows Eponine out of the car. They’re at some local diner at Rouen, its parking lot filled with old cars and the faint smell of wildflowers. There’s a group of teenagers hanging around the front door, sharing a cigarette and laughing amongst themselves. Enjolras sighs. He remembers days when that’s all Les Amis would do - no rescue missions, no fights with angels. 

“We all wish for that,” Eponine says, her voice quiet. 

Enjolras shrugs, holding the door open for her. The teenagers spare them one curious glance. “It’s not that terrible.”

“I didn’t say it was.” 

They wait for Cosette and Marius to end their call with Musichetta, and then they head inside to find a table. Eponine, with all her charm, manages to score a large, round , and rather unbalanced table at the back of the diner, far away from all the noise. There’s a window right beside Enjolras, so he looks outside until Bahorel’s van and Musichetta’s always-clean beetle show up in the parking lot. 

Eponine reaches under the table and squeezes his hand. It’s reassuring. Enjolras turns to give her a soft smile. She returns it. 

They’ve never really been the best of friends. Eponine joined Les Amis because she needed a safe place to get away from her other friends. Enjolras used to find her crying in the broom closet, but apart from those days, when he comforted her, they never really talked. They never had a reason to. Until now, that is. Now, they’re tied, and it’s all because of Grantaire. Maybe it’s not such a terrible thing. 

Eponine taps Enjolras on the arm. There’s a folded napkin by his hand. Casting a smile in Eponine’s direction, he unfolds it. 

_ It’s just one weekend. You’ll be fine. We’re all here with you. _

Eponine automatically wins the Best Friend of the Year award. 

-

“God, Ferre, you  _ cannot  _ listen to Vivaldi on a road trip,” Courfeyrac says, exasperated. He shakes his head. “You can’t. I won’t allow it.”

Combeferre laughs as he drinks his lemonade. “And why won’t you allow it?”

“Social suicide.” Courfeyrac pats Combeferre’s arm. 

“I don’t see what’s wrong with Vivaldi,” Cosette says. She winks at Combeferre while Courfeyrac isn’t looking. “He’s a classic.”

“But all his playlists are Vivaldi! There’s no Rihanna, or Beyonce, or… or Ariana Grande. I mean, come on! She’s an icon for all the gays, Ferre.” 

Enjolras and Eponine exchanged amused glances. For the past half hour, Courfeyrac and Combeferre have been arguing over Combeferre’s road trip playlist, which, apparently, only consists of Vivaldi. Not that Enjolras understands why that’s such a bad thing. 

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre says, sounding not sorry at all. “I just don’t like  _ Dangerous Woman _ . Or any of her other songs. It’s just not my taste.”

Courfeyrac clutches at his chest like he’s been personally attacked. Honestly, he probably feels that way. If there’s one thing he takes seriously, it’s pop stars. “Ferre. Saying Ariana Grande just “isn’t your taste” is like saying you don’t like rainbows. If you’re gay, you have to like both. It’s in the handbook.”

“I don’t like rainbows,” Enjolras says. Everyone turns to stare at him with wide eyes. Marius drops his fork. Enjolras shrugs, picking at his food. “They’re kind of overrated.” 

Courfeyrac jabs a finger at him. “You’re a fraud.”

Cosette giggles. “His sex life would say otherwise.” 

Enjolras and Combeferre both choke on their drinks. Enjolras coughs, sets his can of Coke down, and glares at Cosette. She just flashes him an innocent smile. God, he hates her sometimes. 

“I-” Combeferre pauses. “I didn’t need to know that.”

“Can we please not talk about my sex life, just this once?” Enjolras knows he sounds sort of desperate. He’s very desperate. This has been Les Amis’ favourite topic of conversation for the past week, and he really needs them to start talking about  _ other  _ things. 

Eponine sighs. “I guess. You asked nicely.”

They switch the topic to their plans for Dieppe. Combeferre pulls out his long-ass itinerary and starts detailing everything he’d like to see, while Courfeyrac and Cosette drone on about beach volleyball and ice cream and whatever else people do during summer. Enjolras finds it hard to stay focused, so instead he looks outside and watches the cars go by. 

He ends up thinking about Grantaire, about their confessions earlier today. He can’t seem to get it out of his head.

_ I love you. _

It’s scary, this whole “love” thing, but Enjolras has been through worse. He’ll figure out how to deal with this, he has to. Eponine squeezes his hand again. And maybe, he won’t have to do it alone.

~

Grantaire’s hand is shaking, blood dripping rhythmically from his fingers. He doesn’t really know why. Or how it happened. Atropos just got him mad, and then… well. Now he’s sitting on a log, surrounded by at least a hundred bodies, all mutilated and destroyed. He wishes he didn’t remember any of it, but he does. 

The warm, familiar smell of blood. 

Their hearts beating uncontrollably, beads of fear-infused sweat glistening on their pale skin.

The satisfying crunch of their bones in his hands, and their bodies falling lifeless on the ground.

Taking a deep breath, Grantaire reaches to grab his ring, but instead, he lets his hand rest against the log. It doesn’t take long until it starts to crumble under his touch, and he quickly takes his hand away. He’s destroyed enough life for one day. 

(Or maybe he hasn’t.)

Grantaire’s hand is still shaking, but he can’t stop it. He needs to do something,  _ anything _ , to calm his adrenaline rush. But it can’t be murder. He can’t allow himself to indulge, even if it’s what he desperately needs. But just as things are starting to look rather hopeless, Grantaire has a wonderful idea. 

~

Enjolras barely gets a second to breathe - the minute he closes the door behind him, Grantaire’s attacking him with rough, dirty kisses, like a drowning man gasping for air. Except, they’ve only been apart for a few hours. He can’t be this needy. 

“Geez,” Enjolras chokes out. 

He isn’t averse to the idea of a clandestine make-out session in his hotel room. Not at all. It’s just… breathing is important, too, and he’d very much like to do both, preferably at the same time. 

Grantaire cups Enjolras’ face. His eyes are shining obsidian; there’s no trace of blue left. “I’ve missed you.”

He leans in to kiss him, but Enjolras pulls back. He drapes his arms on Grantaire’s shoulders. 

“It’s been, like, not even a day.”

Grantaire shrugs. “So?”

“Since when have you been this needy?” Enjolras raises an eyebrow. He takes a step closer. And another. And another. He keeps walking forward until he’s almost kissing Grantaire. 

“Since now,” Grantaire replies, his voice dangerously low. 

He leans in to kiss Enjolras again, and this time, Enjolras lets him. It’s a risky situation, allowing them to indulge. The walls in this hotel aren’t particularly thick (Enjolras heard Courfeyrac sing “Single Ladies” in the shower, and that’s not something he really wanted to hear), and he doesn’t need his friends nagging him about his sex life even more. 

But Grantaire. He’s Enjolras’ cocaine, his unhealthy drug addiction. And if there’s a dosage waiting for him right now, so readily available, why should he reject it? 

The answer is simple. He doesn’t.

-

Enjolras realizes, only a little after he’s finally calmed down, that Grantaire’s never mentioned his ring. The pretty obsidian and quartz one. He always wear it, never takes it off - so it must be important. The only question is why? It looks, in all aspects of the term, like a wedding ring - the kind one gives to their lover after an ill-fated declaration of “eternal unity”, or something along those lines. 

Enjolras doesn’t like wondering if Grantaire’s ever loved someone before. 

“What are you staring at?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras blinks, startled. “Nothing.”

“Nothing.” Grantaire smiles to himself and presses his face against Enjolras’ bare shoulder. “As in…?”

“Your ring,” Enjolras says. 

Grantaire lifts an eyebrow. He looks rather surprised. “Okay.” He pauses. “Why?”

Enjolras sits up and brushes his hair out of his eyes. He doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to say. “It’s just… you never take it off. Ever. And I was wondering why.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, laughing. He taps the ring’s obsidian band. “It’s, umm… well, it prevents me from killing everything I touch. Basically.”

Enjolras looks at the ring, and then back at Grantaire. He’s holding his breath, eyes wide and unblinking. Slowly, cautiously, Enjolras removes the ring, and places it gently beside him. He wants to know what Grantaire would do; how far he’d allow himself to go. Just the thought that his life could end with every touch sent shivers up Enjolras’ spine. 

“I-” Grantaire’s voice fades. He doesn’t finish his sentence. 

Without really thinking about what he’s doing, Enjolras leans in and kisses him, gently and slowly and carefully. Grantaire’s still frozen, as if he doesn’t know what to do. Maybe he’s afraid of hurting him. 

“It’s okay,” Enjolras whispers. He hesitates, and then continues. “I trust you.”

There’s a moment of undisturbed silence, and either of them does anything. Then, rather surprisingly, Grantaire kisses him back, wild and addictive. Without noticing (or maybe - Enjolras prefers thinking about this - maybe he does notice) his hand comes to rest lightly on Enjolras’ shoulder. He doesn’t know how long they’re there for, but just as he starts to think they’ve both forgotten about the ring, Grantaire jerks his hand away and pulls back. His eyes are wide, unbelieving. 

“Oh god,” he says, his voice airy and faint. 

Enjolras looks down at his shoulder. There’s a maze of jagged lines extending from the top of his arm to his collarbone. They looked like cracks on a sidewalk, but much more fragile. When he looks back up, Grantaire’s running a hand through his hair. 

“It’s not that bad.”

Grantaire glares at him. Okay, so maybe that’s an understatement. 

Enjolras shrugs, unfazed. “You didn’t kill me.”

“No, but I-” Grantaire pauses and takes a deep breath. His hands are closed in fists. “I almost did.”

Enjolras shrugs again. “So? I’m the one who wanted to know what it felt like.”

“I know.” Grantaire shakes his head. “But I just can’t let myself.”

Grantaire’s unfinished sentences are starting to get really annoying. He kind of expects Enjolras to know everything, even when it’s things he obviously can’t know. 

“You can’t let yourself what?” Enjolras asks. 

He imagines Grantaire saying,  _ I can’t let myself fall in love with you,  _ and he’s overcome by an aching sadness. What if that’s the case? What if he’s holding onto something that isn’t there? 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything else. He just puts his shirt and jeans back on, staring at the floor like all the secrets of the world are written on it. Frowning, he stands up, and - casting Enjolras a sidelong glance - walks out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.

Enjolras watches him disappear down the dimly-lit hall.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I unashamedly got the ending for this chapter from The Secret History. Come say hi on my [ tumblr ](http://epo-nine.tumblr.com)!!! 
> 
> I made a Spotify playlist for this fic! You can listen to it [ here ](https://open.spotify.com/user/blqhkc60wdzgn0sen3w8w2lpw/playlist/0D5AgNRs5tjEQM44YEo1Jy). And you can listen to [ Ferre's roadtrip playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/user/blqhkc60wdzgn0sen3w8w2lpw/playlist/17rFFSYwopXoiwPsubPHLB), and [ Courf's playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/user/blqhkc60wdzgn0sen3w8w2lpw/playlist/3sEijk1qs7l8FS4uLCxd6M).
> 
> If anyone wants the links to my Secret History playlists, let me know, and I'll add them in the notes for the next chapter! :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this earlier, but I've just been so busy lately. I'm sorry, this one's super long. I just had a lot to put in it... anyways, enjoy, mes amis!!! Thank you to everyone who's reading this, and to everyone who's left a kudos or comment. Your support means the world to me!!
> 
> To my dearest Mirela, the Enj to my R. <3

The rest of their time in Dieppe goes by in a blur. Enjolras doesn’t pay attention to which cafe they go to, or which disgusting flavour of ice cream Courfeyrac tries this time. He spends most of his time on the beach, reading whatever book he happened to find. 

 

Today, it’s  _ The Secret History.  _ Combeferre had recommended it, a long time ago, but he’s only getting around to it now (there was a copy at one of the bookstores they visited yesterday, and it was convenient). Even though he’s never been a fan of mysteries, or thrillers, this book has him enthralled. Maybe it’s because his friends, in some way, remind him of the pretentious Greek students at Hampden. Maybe it’s because Grantaire, like Henry, “doesn’t feel much towards other people”. He doesn’t like thinking about that. 

 

“It’s a good one, isn’t it?”

 

Enjolras looks up, his bookmark falling out of his hand, at Combeferre. He’s holding a tall glass of something bright pink and fruity. It was probably Courfeyrac’s choice. 

 

Enjolras picks up his bookmark and slides it in the book. “I guess.”

 

“You guess?” Combeferre raises an eyebrow and laughs quietly. “That’s a vague comment.”

 

Enjolras only nods. He’s too preoccupied with his own thoughts (about Grantaire, nonetheless - he hasn’t seen him since that night) to give Combeferre a decent review. He likes the book, really. He just doesn’t have the words to say it. 

 

Suddenly, he says: “Do you think Richard and Henry are in love?”

 

“What?” Combeferre gives him a confused glance. He shrugs. “Well, I’ve never really thought about that. I suppose they are-” He pauses, head tilted. “Why? Is everything… okay? With Grantaire?”

 

Enjolras sighs. He hates that Combeferre knows he’s thinking about Grantaire when he talks about romance. It ruins any chance at subtlety he previously had. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

 

Combeferre raises an eyebrow.  _ How long is a while? _

 

Enjolras only clears his throat, opens the book, and continues reading. He doesn’t really want to say  _ what  _ they were doing. Combeferre seems to get the message, anyways. His eyes go very wide. 

 

“Oh,” he says, a little surprised. “Well. That’s… why hasn’t he talked to you since?”

 

Enjolras shrugs. It’s rather difficult to read when someone’s trying to hold a conversation with you. “I don’t know, Ferre.” 

 

“Hmm.”

 

They don’t talk much for the rest of the day. In fact, no one bothers to talk to him until lunch. That’s okay, though. He finds his company with Richard and his friends, and the silence is rather comforting.

 

-

 

They eat lunch at a small, cozy restaurant, filled with loud locals and the occasional American tourist. Although most of them aren’t really in a talking mood, Cosette and Courfeyrac have no problem filling the silence with slightly exaggerated stories of their volleyball games, and whatever else happened to them at the beach.

 

Courfeyrac’s recounting what happened with a group of kids at the ice cream cart. Enjolras isn’t really paying attention.

 

“So then,” Courfeyrac says, slamming his hands on the table for dramatic effect. “These kids - there’s like, five of them, and they’re all around ten -  _ cut in front of us _ , and then steal the last My Little Pony popsicle!”

 

“No,” Combeferre drawls. 

 

Courfeyrac doesn’t notice the sarcasm. “I know, I hate kids.  _ I  _ deserved that popsicle more than they did. I’m the gay.”

 

“No, you’re not,” Eponine corrects. 

 

“Well, I’m gayer than they are.”

 

Combeferre sighs. “You don’t know that, Courf. And stop using your sexuality as an excuse to get ice cream marketed for children.”

 

“It’s not an excuse. It’s a perfectly valid reason.” 

 

Enjolras stops listening to their half-argument half-decent-conversation, and turns his head to look outside. There’s a tour guide talking in rapid, accented English just outside the restaurant, pointing at the nearby limestone cliffs. There’s a group of sunglasses-and-shorts-clad tourists surrounding him, eyes wide, listening raptly. It’s not an unusual sight - Enjolras is so used to seeing tourists in Paris that he’s turned a blind eye to them. But now he can’t seem to look away.

 

“Grantaire said there’s a very good tour of the Chateau de Dieppe,” Jehan says, suddenly. “If you want to go.”

 

Enjolras turns to face them, confused. “Grantaire said that?”

 

Jehan nods and takes a sip of their strawberry lemonade. 

 

“When?” Enjolras asks. Maybe they talked to Grantaire before the trip. Maybe it was a group text he never saw. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

 

“Yesterday.” Jehan tilts their head. The flower crown resting lightly on their bright, copper hair starts to slide off, and they quickly place it back. “He didn’t talk to you, did he?” 

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything for a minute. “We haven’t talked since… two nights ago.”

 

“Oh. He said he’d come by today, too, before we drive back to Paris. Something about not being able to see us tomorrow.”

 

Enjolras glances around. He’s rather annoyed that Grantaire didn’t bother to talk to him. “Well, we’re leaving in, like, four hours. And he hasn’t showed up yet.”

 

“Give him time,” Jehan says. “Maybe he’s just busy.” 

 

Enjolras sighs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

 

~

 

“I’m so glad you accepted my invitation,” Alastor says, smiling wickedly. 

 

With a flick of his hand, he signals one of his poor human attendants to pour amber whiskey into gold-rimmed glasses. His mansion, Grantaire has to admit, is rather impressive. It’s full of red velvet carpets, hand-spun silk drapes, sofas embroidered with gold. It’d be much nicer if it didn’t, well, belong to a demon. 

 

Grantaire raises an eyebrow and accepts the glass of whiskey. “Did I have a choice?”

 

“When has anything really been up to choice?” Alastor asks. “Fate rules over us all. Speaking of - how’s your dear friend? Atropos?” 

 

“She’s…” Grantaire stalls, drinking half of what’s in the glass. “She’s fine.” 

 

That’s a lie. The last time he saw her, she was very far from fine. But Alastor doesn’t need to know about that. The less he’s aware of - about anything, really - the better. 

 

Alastor nods. “That’s good. Now, let’s talk business.” He leans forward and clasps his hands together. “I assume you’ve thought about my offer. And I assume you’ve come to a conclusion.”

 

“Not really.”

 

There’s a flicker of uncertainty in Alastor’s green eyes. “No?”

 

“On one hand,” Grantaire says, “it’s a very tempting offer. My hands stay clean, and you do all the dirty work. On the other hand, it’s betrayal. And there are technical issues, of course. Your demons need weak vessels, and I don’t fit that criteria.” 

 

Alastor tenses. His hands are a pale, ghostly white, clenched in tight fists. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

 

“What do you mean?” Grantaire laughs. “It’s not going to work, and I don’t really feel like betraying Enjolras today. Sorry.”

 

Alastor laughs, a deep, uneasy rumble. Like thunder. 

 

“I was afraid you’d say that,” he says, signalling something else to an attendant. The man pulls a glass syringe out of his pocket and places the cap on a diamond-encrusted table. “But, you see, I was looking through my old records the other day, and I came across something interesting.”

 

There’s a moment of silence. Grantaire nervously taps his fingers against the chair. He was hoping this would go better. 

 

“Don’t you want to know what I found?” Alastor asks, his voice dripping with sarcastic sweetness. 

 

Grantaire lowers his gaze. “What?”

 

Alastor smiles. “What an attentive audience! A very,  _ very _ long time ago, I used to run experiments. You know, on angels, fellow demons… Lachesis. Oh, she was my favourite. A bit uncooperative, I’ll admit, but it was just  _ so fun _ to experiment on her, I put that all aside.

 

“Things were, as you remember, much less complicated then. We could go around killing whomever we wanted to, and instead of “investigating” it, people just blamed those deaths on Satan and witchcraft. I thought, “well, wouldn’t it be nice if I had a way to stop those pesky angels from interfering with my destruction.” You know, they kept throwing me back to Hell because I “killed too many people” and I kept fixing the elevator, and it was all very tiring.

 

“Flash forward to a few months later, I had my own little lab, and my assistants, and we managed to make some excellent discoveries which, for some reason, I simply put away. Want to know how to drive angels from their vessels? I’ve got that. And you know what else I have?”

 

“What?” Grantaire asks. He’s feeling a little faint.

 

Alastor clasps his hands together again. “I’m glad you asked. I’ve got a recipe for putting pesky, extra-powerful celestial beings - like you - to sleep. It works wonderfully, if I do say so myself.”

 

“That’s not possible,” Grantaire says, even though he kind of doubts himself. “You can’t just do that.”

 

“Well, apparently I can.” Alastor snaps his fingers, and the attendant with the syringe walks over to Grantaire, and stands behind him. The syringe is filled with a misty blue liquid. “I’ve tested a lot of things, Azrael. And you know what works? You know what makes you and your kind so weak you can’t talk? Morphine, and copper sulphate.” 

 

Grantaire freezes. Morphine. Copper sulphate. How can that be? They’re not supposed to work against him - unless they’re combined. And it’s a really strong dosage. 

 

“That’s impossible,” he says quietly. 

 

Alastor shrugs. “You might want to rethink the meaning of ‘impossible’ then. Do you want me to demonstrate?”

 

“No-”

 

Grantaire winces as he’s stabbed with the syringe, his veins burning from the sulphate. Almost instantaneously, his vision goes blurry. Alastor appears to have two heads. Since when? All the lights in the room (from kerosene lamps, nonetheless - Alastor hates electric lights) start appearing in hazy spots, encircling Alastor’s head like unholy haloes. Before he can say anything else, Grantaire closes his eyes, and descends into darkness. 

 

~

 

Enjolras sighs as he stuffs his suitcase in Eponine’s car. They’re already leaving Dieppe (it’s rather unfortunate - they all want to stay longer, but tomorrow’s Monday), and Grantaire still hasn’t shown up. He doesn’t really know how to feel - upset? disappointed? angry? - but it doesn’t matter, anyway. If Grantaire really wanted to talk to him, he would’ve shown up. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Jehan says, as they grab an ice-cold orange from Musichetta’s cooler. “I thought he’d come.”

 

Enjolras nods. “Me too.”

 

Jehan suddenly perks up, smiling brightly. “Maybe he just thinks we’re leaving later today. Or maybe he’ll meet us at Paris.” 

 

“I doubt it.”

 

Jehan shrugs. “Maybe he’s busy.”

 

_ With what? _

 

“I don’t know,” Enjolras says. He crosses his arms and sighs again. “Whatever. If he comes, that’s great, and if not… that’s his problem, not mine. He can do whatever he wants.” 

 

Jehan doesn’t look very convinced. In fact, the only time Enjolras has seen them entirely convinced was when they watched a video about the moon landing being fake. “I don’t think he’s ignoring you on purpose.”

 

“I don’t know,” Enjolras says again. “We didn’t get into a fight.”

 

Jehan offers a sympathetic smile. It’s endearing, although it doesn’t help much. “I’m sure he’s busy, Enj.”

 

Enjolras nods to himself. He still doesn’t feel convinced. What if Grantaire  _ is  _ ignoring him on purpose? Why would he? What if something happened? That’s not something worth thinking about. If Grantaire has a good reason for not showing up, then surely he’d explain it. 

 

_ “Atropos wanted to talk to me.” _

 

_ “I had a job.” _

 

_ “I got a cold.” _

 

_ “I was on jury duty.” _

 

At this point, Enjolras will accept anything. Any reason. Well, anything that makes sense. He just needs to know that they’re okay, because as much as he likes to pretend he knows Grantaire, he really doesn’t. 

 

(And isn’t that the most terrifying thing? Never knowing what someone’s intentions with you really are?)

 

~

 

When Grantaire regains consciousness (god, he hates that - he’s never  _ lost  _ consciousness, not before), he finds himself in some sort of cellar. He’s surrounded by cases of old wine bottles, and most of the shelves are filled with dusty jars. He doesn’t really want to know what’s in them. 

 

“I’m so sorry I don’t have a torture chamber,” Alastor says, stepping out of a dark corner. Always one for the drama. “I was going to get one installed, but then… well, plumbing was an issue.” 

 

Grantaire turns to shift him, wincing at the scrape of chains against the stone floor. Great. That’s just what he needs. “That’s okay. You don’t need one.”

 

“No, I do.” Alastor pulls a wooden chair up and sits down. “I don’t look professional without one.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t really know what to say. So he opts to remain silent, waiting to find out what Alastor’s going to do next. 

 

“You’ve been awfully talkative,” Alastor says, scratching his chin. He looks confused, though he’s desperately trying to hide it. As he’s busy forming his thoughts, Grantaire notices the thick, leather cuff bracelets around his wrists. They’re what’s connecting him to those chains. And they’ve got straps. “It’s only been, what, an hour? You shouldn’t be able to talk.  _ Why _ can you talk? I gave you the exact amount of morphine and copper sulphate written in the recipe, you can’t-”

 

“Newsflash,” Grantaire interrupts. Thankful he’s half-hidden by darkness, he starts quietly unstrapping the cuffs. “There’s this process called “accumulation of power.” Your recipe works fine for less-powerful beings, Alastor, but because I’ve, you know, gotten stronger over the centuries, it won’t work on me. Well, I mean, it puts me to sleep. But the effects don’t last very long.”

 

Alastor twitches. He’s no longer as confident as he was before. “Impossible. I tested it out-”

 

“On whom?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “It certainly wasn’t me. And I would’ve heard if it was Atropos or Clotho. So who  _ did  _ you test it on?”

 

Alastor lowers his gaze. “An angel.” 

 

“That should’ve been your first clue this wasn’t going to work,” Grantaire says. He lets out a quiet breath of relief as he slides his wrists out of the cuffs. This is much easier than he expected. “Angels aren’t nearly as powerful as I am.”

 

“And what was my second clue?” Alastor asks, his voice tainted with doubt.

 

Grantaire tilts his head. “Who said anything about a second one?”

 

“What was my second clue?” Alastor asks, gritting his teeth. 

 

Grantaire offers him a wicked grin. “This.”

 

He lets the chains fall on the ground, loud and recognizable, and then steps out of the shadows. Alastor’s eyes widen. So maybe he isn’t the only one with a flare for the dramatic.

 

“Efficiency isn’t one of your strengths, is it?”

 

Alastor opens his mouth. “But how-”

 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “You’re blocking the exit.”

 

With a careless flick of his hand, Grantaire sends Alastor slamming into the wall. Bricks and dust crash down with his unconscious body. There’s a thin trail of blood running down the curves of his throat; he’ll have to get a new vessel, then. Sighing to himself, Grantaire makes his way out of Alastor’s mansion, ignoring the curious looks the attendants send his way. 

 

He wonders if he’s made the right decision. 

 

~

 

They get back to Paris a little later than planned because of several crashes on A14, which annoys Enjolras to no end. He was hoping to get home earlier, so maybe he’d see Grantaire there. But it’s already really late, and the chances of Grantaire stopping by today are really slim. 

 

“I don’t feel like cooking,” Combeferre says, as he unlocks the apartment door. “I’ll order pizza.”

 

Courfeyrac lets out a dramatic sigh and collapses on the sofa. “And some Coke?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Enjolras heads straight to his room and sits on the edge of his bed, arms crossed. He’s rather irritated, and it doesn’t help that all his friends care about is what’s for dinner. He’s startled out of his train of thought by a gentle knock on his door. 

 

It’s Combeferre. 

 

“You okay?” Combeferre asks, leaning against the doorway. He looks concerned. 

 

Enjolras shrugs. “Yeah.”

 

“Is this about Grantaire?” Combeferre pauses, like he isn’t sure whether or not to continue. “Jehan told me he was supposed to stop by today.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Enjolras shrugs again. He’s not really in the mood to talk. “You know. It’s not like he promised anything.” 

 

Combeferre nods. “I know. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

 

Before Enjolras can say anything (what would he say, anyways?), Combeferre gives him a sympathetic smile and leaves. Sighing to himself, Enjolras sits back down on his bed and rubs his face. He’s so tired. 

 

They don’t talk about Grantaire. And he never shows up. So maybe everything’s okay, and it’s not that big of a deal. 

 

(Enjolras doesn’t sleep very well. Solitude is an old friend who hasn’t visited him in a long time.)

 

~

 

Grantaire feels terrible. He said he’d go see Enjolras before they left Dieppe, but he got sidetracked, and now he’s stuck somewhere else. It’s a fancy-ass, five-star restaurant reserved for the aristocracy, and it’s absolutely terrible. Prisons come in many forms. 

 

He’s supposed to meet - of all people - Ariel, the angel who hurt sweet, innocent Cosette. Atropos wants to strike an alliance. Use the angels to squash the demons, and then turn on them (unless they prove to be useful - but that’s doubtful). And like the loyal pawn he is, Grantaire’s the one showing up here. As always. 

 

“I respect punctuality,” a voice says.

 

Grantaire half-heartedly turns to face Ariel, who adjusts his navy tie and takes the other seat at the table. He looks overly confident for someone who’s meeting with Death. 

 

“Punctuality is the least of my worries. I own time,” Grantaire says. He’s not even going to attempt polite smalltalk. This is a business meeting, not a college party. 

 

Ariel grins. “Still. My own appointment in Samarra. How exciting.”

 

“I didn’t choose to be here.” Grantaire opens his menu and pointedly stares at it, even though he’s not hungry. 

 

“Have you eaten yet? I heard this place is rather good.” Ariel flips through his own menu. “I’m personally leaning towards an appetizer… what do you think of flatbread?”

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything. Can’t they just eat their food and pretend the other one isn’t there? If it was an option, he’d be out the door right now - except, then Atropos would have his head on a stick, and that doesn’t sound too fun. 

 

“Atropos sent you here, right?”

 

Grantaire frowns. “What does that matter?”

 

Ariel slowly lowers his menu. Are all celestial beings this dramatic? “I know you’re reluctant to work with us, but we’re on the same side. We both want to eliminate the other players. It’d be best if we worked together.”

 

“Why?” Grantaire asks, leaning back. 

 

Ariel’s expression falters. “Pardon?”

 

Grantaire shrugs. “Why should I work with you?” He leans forward, eyes narrowed. “You hurt my friend.”

 

“That won’t happen again.” Ariel clasps his hands together. “We’ll get more work done. It’ll be good for everyone.”

 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “What’s your plan, then?”

 

“You just won’t settle for what I’ve already said, will you?” 

 

Grantaire shrugs. He takes a sip of his ice-cold water. “I like to think things through.”

 

“Right,” Ariel says, “that’s why you had sex with the Chosen One.”

 

Grantaire’s eyes darken. Okay, sure, he didn’t think that through, but Ariel has no right to bring that up. It’s none of his business. “That’s off-limits.”

 

“Something can’t be off-limits if there are no limits to begin with,” Ariel says. 

 

Grantaire just sighs. Why did he agree to this? Atropos could have gone, or even Clotho - it didn’t have to be him. But that’s how it works, unfortunately. Grantaire’s learned to stop fighting their system and just go to whatever stupid thing Atropos doesn’t want to attend herself. This “meeting” being one of those things. 

 

“Your lovely friend Alastor has gained new allies over the past two days,” Ariel says. He waits to see if Grantaire’s listening, and then continues. “Most of them are powerful, at least for their kind. Our job is to locate these demons; yours is to exterminate them.”

 

“Hooray,” Grantaire replies, sarcasm dripping from his voice. He shakes his hands for extra fake-enthusiasm.

 

Ariel pretends not to notice. “We only know the name of one of his allies - Amy. And we’re sure you’re already acquainted with his vessel.”

 

Without waiting for a reply, Ariel pulls a photograph out of his suit pocket and places it on the table. Grantaire’s heart pounds. He desperately hopes it isn’t Enjolras, or one of his friends. He takes a deep breath and glances down. It’s a blurry - yet unmistakable - photo of Enjolras’ priest friend, standing on the steps of the church and talking to a young couple. Grantaire definitely wasn’t expecting this. 

 

“So you do know him.” Ariel smiles. It’s unnerving. “His name is Victor Blondeaux. He’s a priest, as you know. And he’s currently serving as the vessel for one of our most problematic demon friends. We’d appreciate your help in controlling the situation, but we understand if it’s too-”

 

“No,” Grantaire says, pushing the photo away. “I can do it. I’ll go right now.”

 

Ariel considers this, his lips turned down in a pensive frown. Eventually, he smiles again, and tucks he photo back in his pocket. “Excellent. Meet me back here when the job is done, and we’ll discuss further opportunities to work together.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything else. There’s a pit stop he needs to make before he goes to the church, and besides, he hates talking to Ariel. 

 

(Then again, he kind of hates talking to people in general. Ariel isn’t so special.)

 

He fires off a quick text to Atropos before heading down the street:  **Meeting went okay. Off to chop some heads.**

 

He gets an instantaneous reply:  _ Explain later. Good luck. _

 

-

 

There’s someone knocking loudly at the door, and god, they’re being so annoying and rude. Sighing to himself, Enjolras turns the TV volume up. Can’t they hear he’s busy? The person, whoever it is, keeps knocking. Knock knock knock. A pause. And then another round of even more violent knocks. 

 

Enjolras angrily pauses his show. “Coming, geez!” 

 

He stalks over to the door, mentally preparing his “I’m not interested, thanks” speech, but instead comes face-to-face with Grantaire. He blinks, mouth open, completely frozen. 

 

Grantaire’s leaning against the doorway, casual as ever. He also looks really impatient. “Well? Are you practicing for a staring contest or what?”

 

“N-no,” Enjolras says, finally. “I just - I wasn’t expecting to see  _ you _ . What are you doing here?”

 

Grantaire looks like he’s about to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. “Your priest friend got possessed, and we’re going to go save his ass.”

 

“Angel?” Enjolras is still trying to process what’s going on. 

 

“Demon.”

 

They don’t say anything for a moment. Absentmindedly, Enjolras nods, and goes to grab his jacket. They don’t talk as they head out. Enjolras doesn’t even fight back when Grantaire takes his car keys. He prefers using his car for emergencies only, but letting him know that would involve talking, and that’s not something they’re very good at right now. 

 

They drive to the church in silence. Enjolras fiddles with the candlestick the whole way there, nervously watching the buildings fly past them. He hopes they’ll get there on time to save Father Victor (and before any other demons show up). 

 

Grantaire keeps glancing at Enjolras through the mirror, like he wants to say something, but he never does. 

 

Nothing seems out of place at the church. There’s probably lots of people inside, for 12:00 o’clock mass. Grantaire parks the car by the front steps. He glances at Enjolras again before heading out, aggressively slamming the car door behind him. He doesn’t bother waiting for Enjolras to catch up. 

 

“Wait!” Enjolras says, running up to him. Grantaire’s looking at him like he’s a waste of time. “What are we going to do?”

 

Grantaire lets out a snarky laugh and flexes his hands. “You’re not doing anything.”

 

“Then why-”

 

“In case I need back-up,” Grantaire says. “ _ In case. _ ”

 

Before Enjolras can even think of something to say, Grantaire turns and heads into the church. Enjolras places his hand on the door and leans against it, so he can at least see what’s going on. He notices an unusual burn on it - one that definitely wasn’t there before.

 

Everyone in the church turns to look at him. And how out-of-place he looks - scuffed combat boots, ripped jeans, and a bloodied leather jacket. Even Father Victor, who was fixing his cassock, pauses to take a look. Enjolras thinks he sees a hint of black in his pale amber eyes, but that might just be his imagination. 

 

“Amy,” Grantaire says, taking a step forward. And another. The floor burns beneath his feet.  _ The Devil shall not walk on hallowed ground. _

 

Father Victor’s eyes glitter with empty black. His smile is cold. “Azrael.”

 

Enjolras’ breath hitches in his throat. So it’s true, then. He’s been possessed. Dear old Father Victor, his soul shadowed with demonic darkness. It’s not a very pleasant thought. Enjolras wants to run up to him, shake the demon out, but he’s going to let Grantaire handle this. He doesn’t want to get in his way.

 

“Oh, so scary,” Father Victor - the demon - says, moving his hands in a sarcastic gesture.

 

Grantaire isn’t fazed. He takes another step forward. “I am fear.”

 

Father Victor still looks unimpressed. He watches with a cold, glaring intensity as Grantaire keeps walking towards him. Everyone in the church is following them with wide eyes. The ground keeps burning with every step Grantaire takes. His hands brush a bench - it glows a hot red, like embers, and then fades to a dusty black. 

 

Keeping his eyes firmly on Father Victor, Grantaire takes another step. Someone speaks up.

 

“Satan!”

 

The air turns to icy steel. Grantaire tenses, flexing his hands at his side, and then turns around. His eyes glow unnervingly blue. Enjolras doesn’t know whether he’s terrified or turned on - but what does it matter? He grips the door even tighter, watching with wide eyes. 

 

“Satan?” Grantaire asks. His voice echoes in the church. “You dare to call me by the name of Lucifer? Satan is only an illusion of grandeur - the Devil’s existence isn’t worthy of such a reputation. And yet you mortals still worship the things you don’t understand, and banish the parts of your soul you gave a name to.  _ Satan.  _ No, I am not Satan. I am Death - master of all, saviour of none.”

 

Enjolras freezes. He wasn’t expecting that. Wasn’t the whole plan  _ not _ to reveal Grantaire’s identity? He takes a shaky breath and looks back. Grantaire flashes him a subtle smile, but his eyes still burn with that unholiness so particular to him. 

 

Father Victor starts clapping, his hand sarcastically slapping each other. “Lovely speech,” he says, “you’d make a great public speaker. Vote this guy for president, am I right?”

 

In a matter of seconds, Grantaire’s got a hand on either side of Father Victor’s throat. He looks really pissed off, and that normally means unavoidable death. But he’d never actually kill Father Victor, right? Doesn’t he know how important he is to Enjolras?

 

“I guess you don’t have a sense of humour,” Father Victor coughs. He’s trying to play calm and collected, but Enjolras can see past the poorly set-up facade. He’s absolutely terrified. “Killjoy.”

 

“Release your vessel,” Grantaire growls. Enjolras is definitely turned on. He has terrible timing. 

 

Father Victor lets out a sharp laugh. “So what?” He averts his gaze and stares directly at Enjolras, eyes empty. Enjolras’ heart pounds. “So your boyfriend can have his boy toy back?”

 

Grantaire tightens his grip on his throat. “Take that back.”

 

“It’s not in my code of conduct,” Father Victor says. 

 

The church is heavy with ominous silence. Grantaire looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. After a few minutes - long, dreadful minutes - he leans in close, whispers something only Father Victor can hear, and then-

 

He kisses him. 

 

It barely lasts a second, more an accidental brush of lips than a kiss, but it still...  _ happens _ . Enjolras feels his jaw drop. His hands grow pale, grasping the door like a lifeline. He doesn’t really know what’s going on, but just as Grantaire steps back, Father Victor’s eyes roll back, revealing snowy orbs, and he drops. There’s a second of silence, and just as Enjolras manages to catch his breath, a loud roar echoes in the church, and a pillar of black smoke shoots out of Father Victor’s open mouth. 

 

His body twitches. The black smoke disappears entirely. Enjolras still has no idea what happened.

 

Grantaire stands by Father Victor’s body, hesitant, and then turns towards Enjolras. He motions for him to come up. 

 

“What was that?” Enjolras asks. He can’t look at Grantaire. 

 

Grantaire narrows his eyes at Father Victor, arms crossed. “I exorcised the demon.”

 

“With a kiss?” Enjolras forces himself to look up. “A  _ kiss _ ?”

 

“Transfer of power,” Grantaire says. “It worked.” 

 

Enjolras frowns. “What?”

 

“I took some of the demon’s power.” Grantaire sighs, like he has better things to do than explain this to him. “Made him weaker than he already is. And if a demon gets weak enough, they have to abandon their vessel.”

 

Enjolras nods slowly. “Okay.”

 

Grantaire gives him a curious look, head tilted. He glances at Father Victor, and then grabs Enjolras by the hand and starts tugging him away. Enjolras doesn’t try and stop him. They’ll come back later, to see how he’s doing, make sure he’s okay. As they leave the church, hundreds of eyes watching them, he realizes his parents aren’t here. Enjolras lets out a breath of relief. 

 

The drive back to Enjolras’ apartment is silent. Grantaire taps his fingers on the steering wheel. They both avoid looking at each other. Even though it’s all sorted out, Enjolras is still a little confused. Why did that demon target Father Victor? How did Grantaire know about it, anyways? What if he’s working with someone else?

 

Enjolras glances over at Grantaire. “How did you know?”

 

Grantaire’s silent for a minute. He bites his lip, eyes narrowed. He’s thinking about what to say. That’s not a good thing. “I got a tip,” he says. 

 

“A tip,” Enjolras says slowly. It sounds like Grantaire’s purposely leaving something out. 

 

“A tip,” Grantaire repeats. 

 

-

 

“Saviour of one,” Enjolras says, as they enter his apartment. It’s empty. Combeferre and Courfeyrac must be out. 

 

Grantaire lets the door close behind them. Now he looks confused. “What?”

 

“In your speech,” Enjolras clears his throat, “you said you’re the “master of all, saviour of none.” Well, that’s wrong. You’re the saviour of one.”

 

Grantaire’s eyes are dark, endlessly dark. He walks up to Enjolras and puts a hand on either side of his face. Enjolras’ heart pounds wildly. Grantaire leans in even closer, lips brushing his cheek, and whispers: “I can do so much more than save you.”

 

Enjolras closes his eyes, a hand curling around Grantaire’s. His breathing is heavy. Grantaire kisses him, but it’s not gentle. It’s greedy and possessive, a territorial claim or mark of ownership, but Enjolras can’t find it in himself to care. He doesn’t mind. He never minds. He’ll let Grantaire own his heart and soul, his very being - all he has to do is ask. And maybe this is his way of asking.

 

_ Can I have you? Will you be mine, belong to me and no one else? _

 

Enjolras kisses him back, tightening his grip on Grantaire’s hand. 

 

_ Yes. _

 

Grantaire’s other hand moves down to his waist, and he maneuvers them around until Enjolras’ back is pressed against the wall. It’s always more fun when they kiss like this - rough, dirty, greedy. His parents would call it sin. He calls it freedom. Grantaire’s claiming his territory, leaving prints on his body and memories on his lips. 

 

Enjolras, for someone who spent 21 years without having ever even  _ kissed _ someone, doesn’t actually mind rough sex. He was surprised himself, the first time it ever happened (less than a month ago, after a stupid and pointless argument). It seems to be Grantaire’s preference, anyways - and that makes more sense than it should. Rough, careless sex probably gives him the same thrill that murder does. And when those fifteen minutes are over, and they lie entwined and breathless on Enjolras’ bed, all traces of that penchant for sadistic pleasure are gone. 

 

Grantaire definitely seems to want sex now, and frankly, so does Enjolras - he just isn’t sure it’s the right time. Lately, he’s noticed they tend to solve problems through sex instead of communicating, and he doesn’t think that’s what makes a healthy relationship. Not that he minds, obviously. They’re doing fine. 

 

Enjolras puts his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders and gently pushes him back. He looks confused. 

 

“We can’t,” Enjolras says. His voice is hoarse. He shakes his head. “We can’t keep doing this.”

 

“Doing what?”

 

Enjolras waves his hand in a vague gesture. “This! Solving our problems through sex! We need to communicate, dammit. Talk about things.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t really look like he’s following, but he is. He always is. “What problem?”

 

“I don’t know.” Enjolras shrugs. “You’ve been weird lately, and I… I feel like you’re hiding things from me, and my friends are always worried, and I don’t… I don’t know what to think anymore. I mean, I  _ want  _ to have sex with you. But just not when we need to communicate. It doesn’t work that way.”

 

Grantaire opens his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything. He looks pensive. Enjolras isn’t sure if that’s a good thing. He steps back and stares at the ground. Probably not a good thing. He opens his mouth again, but before he can say anything, his phone beeps. Enjolras wonders why he’s never used it to text him. 

 

Sighing to himself, Grantaire checks his phone, and then promptly leaves the apartment. This is the second time that’s happened, in less than a week. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Enjolras will just let Grantaire deal with this on his own time. 

 

He wishes, to some degree, that he hadn’t said anything. 

 

~

 

“What took you so long?” Ariel asks, eyes narrowed suspiciously. He signals for someone - a waiter - and hands Grantaire a menu. 

 

He seems to like meeting in places that serve food. First, a fancy-ass restaurant. Now, a quaint cafe. 

 

“I didn’t want to come,” Grantaire says. He holds back a laugh. 

 

Ariel lets out a quiet breath of disapproval, but he doesn’t say anything. He flips through his menu in silence, eyes deftly scanning the pages. The waiter comes back with two glasses of ice-cold water and a plate of freshly baked bread. The one good thing about this meeting is the free food. Maybe that’s a good enough reason to work with the angels. 

 

“How did it go?” Ariel asks finally. He briefly glances at Grantaire. 

 

Grantaire shrugs. He tries to buy time with four slices of bread, but it’s too good to perpetually chew. “Fine. I exorcised the demon. Saved the priest in distress.”

 

Ariel nods sagely. “And what about the Chosen One?”

 

“Sorry?” Grantaire frowns. How did they know? There weren’t any angels at the church. They couldn’t have known. 

 

“We got a report that he was spotted with you. Why?”

 

“Field trip,” Grantaire says, shrugging. 

 

Ariel nods again. He sips his icy water, eyes narrowed menacingly. “I see. Now, you know how we work. We’ll give you information, and all you have to do is carry out our requests. It’s a fair deal.”

 

It’s not a fair deal, though, not really. The angels get to boss around superior beings, entities with more power than they could ever possess. The amount of power Atropos contains in a single cell is enough to fatally wound even the strongest angel - all her power put together could wipe out an army of them. It’s a risky move, for Ariel to consider this. He likes to think he’s boss, but he hasn’t even passed the interview.

 

“I don’t think,” Grantaire says slowly, trying to sound the words out- he doesn’t want to sound too mean, “that working with you is in our best interests. I mean, Atropos and myself. The demons, as you know, are as weak as paper. We can handle them ourselves.”

 

Ariel’s hands twitch. He’s displeased. “But we can offer help. Support. Back-up. Information you might not be able to access on your own-”

 

“Oh, please,” Grantaire snorts. “We have the entire universe in our hands, Ariel. There is nothing we can’t access. Don’t think you’re superior to us.”

 

“Now you’re just putting words in my mouth.” Ariel stays silent for a moment, tapping his hands on the table. “I think you’re making a mistake.”

 

Grantaire leans forward. “I think you’re making an assumption. Trust me, Ariel. I’m not the one making a mistake.”

 

He grabs another two slices of bread and dramatically leaves, letting the cafe’s doors swing shut behind him. Ariel doesn’t make a move to follow him. 

 

_ He’ll catch up eventually,  _ Grantaire thinks.  _ He’s always been a bit slow. _

 

-

 

Atropos barely acknowledges him when he shows up at her apartment. That’s a peculiarity of hers - asking someone to talk, and then ignoring them. Grantaire doesn’t try and stir up a conversation either. He just sits down on her couch and waits for her to say something. 

 

It doesn’t take long. 

 

“I suppose your meeting went well,” she says.

 

Grantaire shrugs. “I guess.”

 

Atropos is silent again, nodding to herself. She glances at him with large, amethyst eyes, and then quickly looks away. “Why didn’t you take the offer?”

 

“W-what?” Grantaire’s caught a little off guard. 

 

“It was a good offer,” Atropos continues. “You should’ve taken it. If I had been there, I would’ve said yes.”

 

Grantaire frowns at her. “Why? We don’t need them.”

 

Atropos sighs. She looks beyond exhausted, but that’s how she looks most of the time, anyways. “You’re not thinking of the future, Azrael. That’s your fatal flaw.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything. He knows she’s right. He doesn’t think about the future, but that’s because there’s nothing to think about. And besides, he doesn’t want to think about things that haven’t happened yet, because that means leaving Enjolras, and he’s not ready for that. He’ll never be ready for that.

 

“I think you should go tell Ariel you’ve changed your mind,” Atropos says. 

 

Grantaire shakes his head. “I’m not doing that.”

 

Atropos looks like she’s about to explode. There’s fire in her crystal eyes. “Why not-”

 

Grantaire’s phone beeps. Atropos’ voice fades away. Ignoring the irritated glare she sends his way, Grantaire checks his phone. It’s a text. From an unknown address. 

 

**Jehan.**

 

And there’s an address. 

 

“I’ve got to go,” Grantaire says, stuffing his phone back in his pocket. Something tells him this is an alarming situation. 

 

Atropos frowns. “I see. There’s something more important than ensuring an alliance with the angels.”

 

“You know what, Atropos?” Grantaire needs to get this one thing off his chest, and he might as well do it now. “Right now, everything’s more fucking important than your fucking alliance. I don’t care about the angels, okay? I don’t give a shit whether or not this helps your future. I don’t fucking care about working with those celestial assholes - it’s the least of my concerns. And, quite frankly, you’re being a bitch.”

 

He doesn’t stay long enough to hear her response. Jehan’s in trouble, and that’ll always come before Atropos’ stupid conflicts. Besides, anything that matters to Enjolras is first on his priority list. That’s just how it’ll be from now on.

 

-

 

Most of Les Amis are in the Musain when Grantaire arrives, but they aren’t holding a meeting. Combeferre’s sitting by himself, reading  _ On the Origin of Species _ . Enjolras is right beside him, working on something on his laptop. Courfeyrac’s chatting animatedly with Cosette and Eponine, and even though Marius is at the booth, too, he looks like he has better things to do. Musichetta’s serving a customer, and Joly and Bossuet are at a nearby table, looking through neon flashcards. 

 

“Where’s Bahorel and Feuilly?” Grantaire asks, even though he’s pretty sure they’re not in any trouble. He hopes not. 

 

Everyone looks up at him, startled. Combeferre slowly lowers his book, a disapproving frown gracing his lips. Enjolras pauses his furious typing and glances up at Grantaire. He quickly averts his gaze. 

 

“At the gym,” Musichetta says, eyes narrowed.

 

Grantaire nods, more to himself than the others. “Good. That’s good.”

 

“Why?” Enjolras’ voice is small, uncertain. He glances at Grantaire again. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

 

Grantaire doesn’t think there’s a point in hiding the truth from them. They’ll find out one way or another, and it’ll only be uglier if he keeps it a secret. They already don’t trust him; he doesn’t want to enforce that. 

 

“Jehan’s in trouble,” he says. 

 

Enjolras’ eyes go wide. “What kind of trouble?”

 

Grantaire shrugs. He doesn’t want Enjolras to get too worried. “I don’t know. I’m going to go get them.”

 

“I’ll go, too,” Enjolras says. He stands up. Les Amis watch his every move. 

 

Grantaire shakes his head. “No, Enjolras.”

 

“Why not?” Enjolras looks angry, but he’s just confused. He wants answers, but being a hero is higher on his list of priorities. “They’re my friend.”

 

“They’re a victim first; they’re your friend second.”

 

Enjolras looks just about ready to explode. He angrily walks over to Grantaire, hands clenched in fists. Grantaire takes deep breaths, trying to calm himself down before he does anything he’d regret. 

 

“No, Grantaire, they’re not.” Enjolras’ voice is blazing with unadulterated anger. “They’re my friend, and that comes before everything else. I’m coming with you.”

 

Grantaire feels his hands shaking. He can’t give in, not this time. Not now. “I can’t let you.”

 

“Why?” Enjolras tilts his head. “Why can’t you-”

 

“Stop!”

 

Before Grantaire can even think about it, he slams Enjolras into the closest table. Enjolras doesn’t get up for a moment, his eyes wide and his mouth open in complete shock. He looks close to tears. Grantaire’s hand is still shaking. When Enjolras does get up, after what feels like ages, he gently touches the part of his back that hit the table, and his hand glistens with bright blood. Grantaire didn’t think it was that hard. 

 

Neither of them say anything. Enjolras looks… well, he looks exhausted. Shocked. A little terrified, if Grantaire’s going to be honest. But he doesn’t look mad. Maybe he saw this coming. Maybe he knew, deep down, that Grantaire was eventually going to hurt him. 

 

Grantaire runs out of the Musain before anyone can say anything. He doesn’t want to deal with this right now. 

 

-

 

He finds Jehan on a windy rooftop, held back by two heavy-built angels in matching black suits. Ariel is standing in front of them, hands clasped behind his back. There’s another blonde-haired angel by his side, her thin lips pursed in a disapproving frown. 

 

“I thought you’d come,” Ariel says. 

 

Grantaire ignores him. “What’s all this?”

 

Ariel stretches his hands out, grinning like a madman. “Just a way to get you to agree to our offer.” He glances over at Jehan, struggling fruitlessly against the angels. His grin grows wider. “I’m sure you do the same with your boy when… well, you know.”

 

That’s it. Grantaire’s not going to let him go around saying things like that (even though, in a way, he’s right. How many times has he thought of that? Of owning Enjolras completely, holding him down as if he was a wild animal, a  _ pet _ , and not a person? How much times has he wanted to grip Enjolras’ wrists until his bones snapped?). He grabs Ariel by the collar of his dress shirt and hauls him up.

 

“That’s the last fucking straw,” Grantaire growls. 

 

Ariel laughs quietly and attempts to turn his head to face the other angel. “Write that down, Eliza. That’s a perfectly exploitable weakness-”

 

Grantaire punches him square in the jaw before he can finish his sentence. Ariel doesn’t look too pleased. Good. Grantaire didn’t come here to make him happy. 

 

“I was really hoping you’d be civil.” Ariel sighs. “We’re not going to hurt your friend, Azrael.”

 

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me if I don’t quite believe you.”

 

“You’re excused.” Ariel’s silent for a moment. “Considering you rejected our previous offer, I’ve altered it. We saw you talking with… whomever this human is, so obviously he-”

 

“They,” Grantaire corrects. He sees Jehan smile at him, and he subtly smiles back. 

 

Ariel rolls his eyes. “- _ they _ know something. You’ve got two choices: one, you work with us, and our offer remains as I presented it to you; or two, we take your friends in for questioning, one by one, and if they don’t make it back… well, you’ll find replacements. It’s your choice.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to work with the angels, no matter what Atropos says. But if he declines Ariel’s uncharacteristically peaceful offer, he’ll have to deal with the fact that any torture Les Amis face would be his fault. He doesn’t spend much time with them, but he’s still grown to love them, and he can’t let anything like that happen to them. Enjolras would kill him. Hell, he’d kill himself. 

 

“No,” he says, finally. It sounds like an afterthought, but this isn’t a topic that required thought in the first place. “I’m not going to accept your offer.”

 

He releases Ariel from his grip and runs a hand through his hair. He can’t tell if he’s done the right thing. This  _ is  _ the right thing, right? It’s what Enjolras would want, at least. That’s always felt like the right thing.

 

Ariel tenses. “Very well. You’ve made your choice.”

 

“I’m not going to work with you, Ariel, but that doesn’t mean you get to use my friends like test subjects.” Grantaire takes a step towards him. Ariel takes a cautious step back. “Leave them the fuck alone.”

 

“Or…?” Ariel drawls, disbelief dripping from his voice. 

 

Grantaire didn’t really think about that. Well, he’ll just make something up. Threats have always been his forte. “I fucking destroy you.”

 

“Stop saying that.” Ariel’s hands are pale. Grantaire can hear the faint, rapid hammering of his vessel’s heart. Fear is such a lovely thing. It can’t be concealed. 

 

Grantaire takes another step closer. Ariel takes another step back. Soon, they’re right at the edge of the building. One more step, and they both fall. 

 

“I’ll fucking ruin you,” Grantaire says. He’s getting such a delirious thrill from this newfound control. “I’ll make your fucking empire collapse. I  _ will _ destroy you.”

 

Ariel glances behind him. There’s no more room on the roof. He knows that. He turns back to Grantaire, and his eyes are glazed with uncertainty. “Don’t take another step.”

 

“Why?” Grantaire takes another step. Ariel doesn’t move. “If you fall, I fall, too.”

 

He vaguely remembers what Atropos said to him, a long time ago. 

 

_ If there’s one thing I need you to promise,  _ she said,  _ it’s that you’ll never fall.  _

 

_ Why?  _ He asked.

 

_ A fall weakens us, Azrael. Celestial beings aren’t meant to touch the ground with disgrace. I can’t have you weakened. It’d ruin us. Promise me you won’t fall. _

 

_ I promise,  _ he said.

 

Well. Grantaire didn’t know better at the time. And even though he technically doesn’t have to, he knows that Ariel will run away the minute he gets off the building, and he can’t have that. He needs to make sure Ariel understands that he has no power, not over Grantaire, and certainly not over Les Amis, before he grabs Jehan and leaves. And if falling with him - if showing him that, even if weakened, he’s always going to be more powerful - does the job, he’ll break his promise. He’ll fall. 

 

“Y-you can’t,” Ariel says, shaking his head. “You’ve gone mad.”

 

Grantaire shrugs, and takes another step. “I haven’t gone mad. I’ve always been like this.”

 

“I’m not-” Ariel doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t like showing fear, but today he’s not holding anything back. It’s thrilling. 

 

“The thing is, Ariel, you don’t really get a say. Fate rules over us all.” He smiles. Perhaps the adrenaline’s getting to him. Perhaps he’s taking too big of a risk. “And I’m on friendlier terms with her than you’ll ever be.”

 

~

 

“Shit, are you okay?” Combeferre asks. 

 

Enjolras puts a hand on the table to steady himself. “Yeah.” He’s not so sure, though. Everything’s a little dizzy.

 

“Liar,” Combeferre says. He gets up and wraps an arm around Enjolras’ waist, holding him up, just like Grantaire does when they fuck against a wall. It’s usually too much work to get to his bed, or even the couch. “You’re not okay.”

 

Enjolras shrugs. His shoulders hurt. He feels his shirt stick to his skin with blood. “Maybe you’re right.”

 

“We have to get you to a hospital,” Joly says. He looks terrified. Like a ghost. 

 

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, not now. I’m fine. I… we have to-” He takes a deep breath. His lungs hurt, too, but that’s probably nothing. It’s normal. It’s just regular pain. “Grantaire. We have to… to follow him.”

 

Combeferre doesn’t look like he agrees. “I don't think that’s a good idea.”

 

“Yeah, it is,” Enjolras mutters, gripping Combeferre’s sleeve like a lifeline. “Please, let me go. Jehan’s in… trouble, and- Grantaire might be, too, and-”

 

“Okay,” Combeferre says. “Okay, we can go. But I’m coming with you.” He gingerly lifts the hem of Enjolras’ shirt and examines the wound with his serious doctor face. “You’re not bleeding that much, you’ll be fine. Just try not to move a lot.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “No promises.”

 

No one else objects, or tries to tag along. Enjolras understands. They have no idea what kind of trouble Jehan’s in, or what’s happening, or who they might have to fight. And they also have no idea what state Grantaire’s in. Maybe they’re just scared. And they do have reason to be scared - just this one time, their doubts are justified. But it was a mistake. A glitch. It won’t happen again. 

 

Enjolras has a hard time convincing himself. 

 

-

 

Enjolras’ knowledge of Grantaire’s phone comes in handy. With all his hacking skills (that he doesn’t like putting to use), Combeferre manages to locate him with his GPS. It’s a five minute walk. Just a block away. The building, luckily, is unlocked, and it doesn’t take them very long to find out where, exactly, Grantaire is.

 

“The roof?” Combeferre asks, staring at his phone incredulously. “The  _ roof _ ? What the ever-loving f-”

 

“Shut up,” Enjolras says. He’s feeling much better now. Maybe all he needed was some fresh air. He grabs Combeferre’s hand and tugs him up the fire exit stairs, all the way to the top. The door leading to the roof is unlocked. 

 

Taking a deep breath, he slowly and quietly pushes it open. The first thing he sees is Jehan, held back by two scary-as-hell angels. The second thing he sees is Grantaire, standing on the very edge of the roof, with Ariel right beside him.

 

He wants to call out, “Grantaire!”, but it’s too late. They came too late. He sees them fall. 

 

Enjolras stands there for a moment, holding his breath. He has no idea what just happened. Well, they fell. But he doesn’t know what that means. Will Grantaire get hurt? Is Ariel going to kidnap him? He can’t seem to wrap his head around the situation. Combeferre, however, still seems to have his sanity.

 

He pulls a gun out of his jacket (where did he get that?) and fires two shots at the angels holding Jehan. One gets hit on the arm; the other gets shot in the abdomen. They glare at Combeferre, but then they disappear. Looking rather satisfied, Combeferre puts the gun back in his jacket.

 

“What the fuck?” Enjolras asks softly.

 

And then he runs. He runs to grab Jehan, and without a word, continues running down the stairs. Combeferre’s right behind them. They keep running until they’re outside the building, and Enjolras only stops when he sees them. Ariel’s leaning against a smashed car, breathing heavily. There’s a trail of smeared blood on his wrist; his hand is covered in dried red, red blood. And Grantaire - he’s standing right in front of him, looking like fury itself.

 

“Holy crap,” Jehan says. 

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t dare move. He watches with wide, alert eyes as Grantaire hauls Ariel up and punches his face several times. He looks like he isn’t wasting any effort on him, but Enjolras knows better. He can tell the fall weakened him. He can tell he’s wasting so much energy into doing this. 

 

“Leave my friends the fuck alone,” Grantaire growls. He punches Ariel again, and this time his hand comes back stained with blood. 

 

And in that moment, Enjolras understands. He wonders how many times those hands, the same ones that caressed his body and left marks of worship behind, had been the last ones to feel a man’s warm blood, how many times they’d ended a life. It turns him on more than he’s willing to admit.

 

Ariel lets out a broken, hoarse laugh. “You can’t tell me what to do, you overrated asshole.”

 

Grantaire punches him again. He’s losing more and more energy, and it’s going away fast. Enjolras doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to keep this up.

 

“Never mind,” Ariel says. “Asshole is an understatement.”

 

“Fuck off,” Grantaire growls. He lifts his hand to punch Ariel again, but he doesn’t. That’s it. He’s lost. However much energy he had left is entirely gone. 

 

Combeferre glances at Enjolras. “We should go.”

 

Enjolras shakes his head. “No.”

 

Combeferre doesn’t say anything else. He takes his gun out and keeps it at his side, just in case.  _ Just in case of what? _

 

Ariel laughs again, but he doesn’t sound nearly as broken as he did before. He slowly stands up, flexes his arms, and then sends Grantaire crashing into the building’s wall. He hits the brick with a loud thud. Enjolras feels sick.

 

“You’re not as powerful as you think,” Ariel says. He looks rather tired, too. “I guess we’re even.”

 

Grantaire spits blood on the ground. He middle-fingers Ariel. “Fuck off.”

 

“Gladly.” Ariel fixes his tie with a cold, uncomfortable smile. “Just remember this, next time you’re feeling so high and mighty. You’re not invincible, Azrael. You’re not as superior as you like to believe.”

 

Before Grantaire can say anything else, Ariel disappears. That explains why he didn’t fight back - he was saving up all his energy so he could get away. Grantaire never thinks about those kinds of things. He’s always had an issue with rationality. 

 

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks. He isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to help Grantaire or not.

 

Grantaire glares at him. “I thought I told you not to come.”

 

“Yeah, well, Enjolras has always had an issue with authority,” Combeferre snaps. He tightens his grip on the gun. He’s never taken anyone’s bullshit, of course he wouldn’t take Grantaire’s.

 

Grantaire rolls his eyes and gets up, dusting his hands on his jeans. He looks thoroughly disappointed, and still rather furious. Enjolras isn’t going to blame him, though. He  _ did  _ just lose a fight against an inferior angel. 

 

“What are you still doing here?” He asks. 

 

“Checking-” Enjolras begins.

 

“I don’t fucking need your help,” Grantaire says. Okay, so he’s still very angry. “I’m fine.”

 

Combeferre lets out an irritated breath. “We never said you weren’t.”

 

“Just leave.” Grantaire crosses his arms. “I’m done here.”

 

Enjolras wants to say something, to stand up and keep telling him that he’s not fine, he’s hurt, and they can help, but he doesn’t know how. Today hasn’t been a very good day for him - for any of them - and he doesn’t want to make it worse. He takes Combeferre and Jehan’s hands and guides them away, ignoring the look Grantaire sends his way. 

 

Grantaire’s not the only one without any energy. 

 

~

 

“Will it work?” Amy says, chewing the cigarette in his mouth. He’s been agitated ever since the scene at the church. 

 

Alastor sips his whiskey and leans back, smiling. Today’s a very good day. “I have no doubt.”

 

“But how will we know? When will we know?” Amy’s voice is dripping with impatience. He’s never really been the patient type, anyways. Maybe it’s time he learns.

 

“Patience,” Alastor says, “is a virtue.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~cliffhanger~
> 
> I'm really going to try and get chapter 19 up sooner. I've been waiting SO LONG to write it!! Y'all better be impressed... :)
> 
> Come say hi and talk to me about this fic on my [ tumblr ](http://epo-nine.tumblr.com)!!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this took me almost 5 months to finish... I had most of it done by January, but then I was just really busy, and I kind of didn't feel like writing. It's finally here! Wow. Thank you so much to everyone who's waited for this (patiently or not), I'm so sorry it took me so long. I appreciate all of you guys so much!!
> 
> Just a side note: this chapter contains some graphic violence and (not so graphic) non-consensual sex. I've changed the warnings on the fic for that. If you don't want to read that, I've put a summary in the end notes. 
> 
> This one goes out to Addy, who gave me a gift basket after I went through a tough thing, and to Mirela, of course, the E to my R. <3

It’s been two days since Enjolras saw Grantaire, and he’s not going to wallow in self-pity in the confines of his apartment. No, he’s not going to give into sadness. That’s what Grantaire would want. He’d want Enjolras to think about how much he misses him, how much he  _ needs _ him, how utterly sorry he is. 

 

And that’s why Enjolras is at a nightclub with his friends. 

 

Normally, he doesn’t agree to go with them. If there’s one thing he hates as much as he hates the aristocracy (or, close enough), it’s clubs. People dancing inappropriately, grinding their bodies together. Loud, deafening music. Disgusting alcoholic drinks that have probably been tampered with. People looking for a one-night stand at every corner. He hates it, hates the whole vibe. But Grantaire would hate the idea of him surrounded by attractive, meaningless people, his mind poisoned with bad alcohol, so he’s doing just that.

 

“You going to take her home?” Courfeyrac asks loudly, nodding his head in the direction of a mildly attractive, young woman dancing seductively near their table. 

 

She looks like she wants Enjolras (or Courfeyrac, it’s hard to tell) but he obviously doesn’t want her. He only wants Grantaire, but that’s not even an option right now.

 

“Nah,” Enjolras says, tapping the edge of his glass. His drink, pink and peachy and disgusting, which Bahorel bought for him, was the result of a bet. If Bahorel has bathroom sex with a girl before midnight, Enjolras gets a free drink. Which he did. Courfeyrac called it a “Sex on the Beach”. “I’m too gay.”

 

Courfeyrac pouts. “But she seems nice.”

 

“Everyone seems nice to you.”

 

“Good point.” Courfeyrac suddenly stops his incessant tapping and looks up. “Are you drunk?”

 

Enjolras snorts. God, he wishes. Even though his friends think he’s a lightweight, he’s actually pretty damn good at holding in his liquor. It’s an emergency skill. “Not even close. This  _ is _ my first drink.”

 

“Damn, I lost another bet,” Courfeyrac mutters, shaking his head. He pulls a bill out of his wallet. “Ferre! You won! He’s not a lightweight!”

 

Combeferre appears at their table with a bottle of water in his hands. He’s their designated driver for the evening. “I know.”

 

“I thought you were lying,” Courfeyrac says. 

 

Combeferre pulls a chair up and shrugs. “I told you I wasn’t. It’s not my fault you didn’t believe me.”

 

Before Courfeyrac can respond, a very drunk and very flirty Eponine stumbles towards them. She offers a half-assed wave, a smile, and then seats herself down on Combeferre’s lap. He looks irritated, but he doesn’t do anything about it.

 

“What’s up, bitches?” Eponine asks, her words slurring together. “Imma… mmm, found a nice boy, an’ we- hmm, we gonna fuck. Said he likes me.”

 

Combeferre frowns at her. “Don’t have sex while you’re drunk, Ep. You’ll regret it.”

 

Eponine turns around and wraps her arms around Combeferre’s neck. She leans in so close, that from Enjolras’ perspective, it looks like they’re kissing. She smells like sugar. Courfeyrac told him once that she loves cocktails, especially the sweet ones. 

 

“Then why don’t  _ you _ -” She giggles. “Fuck me, huh? Huh?”

 

“Definitely drunk,” Combeferre says. “How many drinks did you have?”

 

Eponine just smiles at him. “Dunno.”

 

Enjolras stirs his drink. It’s disgusting, but it’s the kind of thing Grantaire would never touch, and so he’s putting up with it. He’s probably going to vomit the minute he gets back to his apartment. Or even sooner. 

 

“You should take her home,” he says. 

 

Eponine wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Ooh.”

 

“No one’s taking anyone home.” Combeferre’s starting to look uncomfortable. “Eponine, stay with me, okay?”

 

Eponine nods. She reaches for Courfeyrac’s abandoned tray of shots, but Combeferre moves it away. The rest of Les Amis come and go, stopping by to boast about their success or try and drag Enjolras onto the dancefloor. He’s never been one for dancing, and he certainly isn’t going to try with Bahorel grinding against him. Besides, as much as he likes to deny it, he’s still waiting for Grantaire to show up. 

 

“You don’t have to stay,” Combeferre says. Eponine’s busied herself with a game of chopsticks with Cosette, who came to replace Courfeyrac after his trip to the bar twenty minutes ago (Enjolras thinks he saw him dancing with Joly, but he isn’t sure). 

 

Enjolras shrugs. “I want to. I need to get out.”

 

“You’ve… you never want to get out.” Combeferre frowns at him. “What’s changed?”

 

“Nothing. I just need to stop thinking about Grantaire all the time.”

 

Combeferre offers a small smile. “It’s only been two days, Enj. He’ll come back. He’s probably just healing, you know?”

 

Enjolras shrugs again. “I guess.”

 

“You really don’t have to stay,” Combeferre says. He pushes his glasses up. 

 

Enjolras sighs. “Yeah, I know, I just-” He pauses, the words he wanted to say dying on his tongue. 

 

No. It can’t be. He blinks, wonders if he’s going insane. Maybe it’s the alcohol. But Grantaire’s still there, walking into the club like the boss he thinks he is. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses (in a dark club, really? Only assholes do that) and a shiny leather jacket. And he hasn’t spotted Enjolras yet. Grantaire takes his sunglasses off and folds them on his shirt, and then makes his way over to the bar. 

 

Combeferre follows his gaze, confused. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” Enjolras blurts, a little too quickly. He shakes his head. “Nothing. I just thought I saw Courf.”

 

Combeferre sighs. “Well, he’s probably just dancing. Or at the bar. I don’t know.”

 

“Yeah,” Enjolras says, a little distantly. He turns to look at Grantaire again. 

 

Like the good friend he is, Combeferre senses he doesn’t really want to talk, and instead attempts to help Eponine win a round of chopsticks. She’s terrible when she’s drunk.

 

At the bar, Grantaire’s already gotten him a bright pink drink (maybe Enjolras was wrong; maybe he likes that kind of stuff), and is now chatting with two young women. They’re both giggling and chatting, trying to get the most of his attention. Enjolras can see why. Grantaire’s definitely attractive, and obviously those girls are trying to get laid. He feels a coil of jealousy in his stomach, growing at an uncomfortably fast rate, and looks away. 

 

But he can’t really look away. He watches as Grantaire wraps an arm around both of them, still chatting as if they were old friends. He leads them both onto the dance floor. The sound of their bright, bubbly laughter still echoes. 

 

Enjolras suddenly pushes his chair back. “I’m just… I’m going to the bar,” he says. “I might take a while.”

 

“Okay,” Combeferre says. He sounds a little startled. 

 

Enjolras goes down the crowded stairs to the even more crowded bar, and grabs an empty seat before anyone else can. On one side, there’s a couple getting a bit too handsy, and on the other side, there’s a group of ten frat boys rating the girls who walk by. He wonders, for the millionth time that evening, why he agreed to come. 

 

When he turns to look at the dancefloor, pretending to search for Courfeyrac, he sees Grantaire dance like sex, one girl in front of him and the other behind him. He looks completely enthralled in the music, letting himself revel in the feeling of material sin. 

 

_ Sin. _ Enjolras is starting to sound like his parents. 

 

Sighing to himself, he asks the bartender for a can of soda (lemon flavoured, he’s not a complete snob), and tries to think of other things, happier things. Technically, Grantaire isn’t cheating on him. He’s just dancing. That doesn’t mean he’ll go home with either (or both) of the girls. Besides, who ever said their relationship has to be monogamous? No one, that’s who. So, theoretically, Grantaire wouldn’t be cheating on him even if he had sex with someone else right here and now. 

 

But Enjolras still can’t help feeling jealous. He’s never had this, an intimate relationship reserved for him and only him, and he wants it so badly. He doesn’t want to share Grantaire. He doesn’t want Grantaire to kiss other people the way he kisses him, doesn’t want him looking at them like they’re all the light in his world, doesn’t want him running his hands over their bodies like delicate works of art. He wants that all to himself. He doesn’t care if he comes off as possessive, or selfish, or greedy. He’d take Grantaire for himself over breathing any day. 

 

Grantaire stumbles back to the bar with those damn girls, laughing like he’s high or something. He orders drinks (eight glasses of Wake the Dead, whatever that is) for them all, and then collapses on a stool with both girls on his lap. He still hasn’t noticed Enjolras. 

 

And Enjolras, even though he’s trying his hardest to deny it, prove it wrong, wonders if this is just how Grantaire is. If maybe this is him, in all his glory. If maybe he isn’t as loyal as he seems to be. And it hurts, it really does. But there’s still the possibility that this is a glitch, a one-time thing, an accident, and that’s the option Enjolras is going to go with. 

 

“Shots!” Grantaire says loudly, when he gets his eight glasses. 

 

He passes one out to each of the girls. They clink their glasses together, and then the girls giggle. They’ve been doing that non-stop. Giggling. Enjolras hates it, hates the sound of their happiness.

 

(It’s not the fact that they’re happy that bothers him. It’s that they’re happy  _ with Grantaire _ .)

 

“Damn, you’re sexy,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t even sound like himself. “Why don’t we just leave this shithole and go have some… other fun, yeah?”

 

One of the girls, a brunette with alluringly radiant green eyes, nods enthusiastically. “Let’s do it.”

 

The girls let out synchronised cheers, and gulp down two more shots. Grantaire takes the last, a smirk gracing his lips. He’s not acting like himself. Unless… unless this  _ is _ how he acts, and Enjolras has just been oblivious. God, he hates that. He hates thinking about that. 

“Um,” Enjolras says, clearing his throat loudly. That’s the best he can come up with?  _ Um _ ?

 

Grantaire and the girls turn to look at him. For a moment, Grantaire looks like he doesn’t recognize him. But when he does, he smiles, as if nothing’s wrong. 

 

“Hey, Enj,” Grantaire says. He still doesn’t sound like himself. It’s… weird. “I didn’t see you there.”

 

_ You always see me. _

 

Enjolras shrugs. “That’s okay. Who, uh, are they?”

 

Grantaire’s smile grows wider and he glances at each of the girls. He nods at the brunette. “This is Alice.” He nods at the other girl, whose hair is dyed a deep blue. “And this is Emma.”

 

Enjolras offers them a half-hearted smile. Those poor girls have no idea they’re dating, and maybe they don’t need to know. Enjolras will just get Grantaire away, remind him that this isn’t something they talked about, and maybe, finally communicate about their problems. 

 

“Can we talk?” Enjolras asks. 

 

Grantaire’s smile falters. There’s something unnervingly foreign in those blue, blue eyes. He nods, and with a quiet word to the girls, follows Enjolras to a quiet corner of the club. The only other people there are an extremely drunk man and woman, making out on a black chair. Taking a deep breath, Enjolras looks up, and spots Combeferre and Eponine on the upper floor. Good. He can go to them, if anything happens. 

 

“You know, if you want-” Grantaire pauses. “There’s two of them. We can share.”

 

It takes Enjolras a moment to understand what Grantaire’s saying. “What? I don’t want to… to join your threesome-”

 

“Well, if you join, it won’t be a threesome,” Grantaire says matter-of-factly. 

 

“You’re not acting like yourself,” Enjolras blurts. His eyes go wide. Oh, crap. That’s never a smart thing to say. 

 

Grantaire laughs nervously. “What? That’s crazy.”

 

The real Grantaire would never say that. He’d never act this nervous, like he’s uncertain of himself. He’d never even want to have a threesome. Enjolras knows him. He knows Grantaire, as he really is. And this isn’t him. 

 

Enjolras’ breath hitches in his throat. He’s taking a giant risk. “You’re not Grantaire.”

 

He almost doesn’t see it coming, although in retrospect, he should’ve. Grantaire fists his hand in the collar of his shirt and slams him into the wall. He looks beyond angry. Bloodthirsty. Ruthless. Cold. There’s something unmistakably  _ not him _ in those eyes. It’s terrifying, and only slightly curious. 

 

“How do you know?” Grantaire asks, his voice low and husky. It’s his sex voice. Enjolras tries not to think about that right now. 

 

“I just know,” Enjolras says. He grits his teeth, heart hammering. “I just know.”

 

Grantaire gives him a dangerous grin. His teeth gleam like knives. “How well do you know me, huh? Not as well as you think you do. You can’t say I’m not myself when you don’t even know me.”

 

Enjolras’ breathing is rapid and shallow. He has that horrible gut-wrenching feeling one gets when they’re about to die. “You’re not Grantaire.”

 

For a moment, Grantaire doesn’t say anything. The silence is thick and ominous. Grantaire frowns at the floor, like he’s thinking about something, and then glances up at Enjolras again. He blinks. His eyes turn to empty obsidian. 

 

Enjolras feels like he’s suffocating.  _ Demon. _

 

“Who knew you were so observant?” Grantaire blinks again. His eyes are now blue, but it’s an icy, distant, unfamiliar blue. 

 

Enjolras doesn’t dare move. “Leave him alone.”

 

“Too late.” Grantaire - the demon, whatever - shrugs and steps back. Enjolras could run away, if he wanted to. But he’s too scared. “There’s no “him” to leave alone, Enjolras. It’s only me.”

 

“That… it can’t be-”

 

“Oh, did your prince forget to tell you?” Grantaire laughs, dark and sinister. “A fall weakens an angel, hun. And he counts in that category. You see? I’m just doing my job.”

 

“And what job is that?” Enjolras asks. God, he’s making small talk with a demon. What has his life become?

 

“Tell Alastor everything, obviously. Your prince didn’t accept his deal-”

 

Enjolras frowns. “What deal?”

 

Grantaire laughs again. “Oh, dear, maybe he wasn’t as loyal as you thought. Hun, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to let that loose. I thought you knew.”

 

“No,” Enjolras says. He isn’t quite sure what he’s saying no to - to Grantaire’s pretend loyalty, to him knowing this before. He doesn’t know. And it doesn’t really matter.

 

“Well, anyways,” Grantaire continues, “Alastor had to find some way to get the information he needs. So he sent me in.”

 

Enjolras opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t even know what to say. Everything makes much more sense now - the alcohol, the girls, the weird feeling he got. But he still can’t seem to process the situation. Grantaire’s possessed by a  _ demon _ . And, according to said demon, he isn’t even there anymore. So where is he? He can’t be dead. It’s just… it’s not possible. 

 

“Take your time,” Grantaire says. He leans in a little closer. “But before I go, I have some ground rules. One, you can’t tell your friends. Or anybody. No one knows about me, or else I fucking kill you. Two, you don’t interfere with anything I do. My business isn’t your business, got it? Third-” he pauses, and grins again, “from now on, you’re my property. I. Own. You. Got it?”

 

Enjolras nods. “Got it.”

 

Without another word, Grantaire violently releases him, and walks back to the girls at the bar. Enjolras just stands against the wall for a moment, unsure of what to do. Everything happened so quickly. He isn’t even sure if it’s all real. But when he looks over at Grantaire, and sees the glint of black in his eyes, he knows. 

 

He feels like crying. But he can’t do that here, not now. His friends will ask what’s wrong. And he can’t just tell them about the demon, or even that he saw Grantaire, because they might want to talk to him, and that’d be too risky. 

 

He glances one last time at Grantaire and the girls, dancing like sex, and heads back upstairs. Combeferre only looks mildly surprised to see him. 

 

“You okay?” He asks.

 

Enjolras runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Yeah. I’m good.”

 

“You sure?” Combeferre doesn’t believe him. That’s his problem now. 

 

“Yeah, everything’s fine, I just… I’m going to head back home. I’m kind of tired.”

 

Combeferre nods, eyes narrowed. “Okay. We’ll try not to stay up too late.”

 

“No, it’s fine, stay as long as you want.” Enjolras waves his hand dismissively. “I’ll just go to sleep. Maybe read, or something.”

 

Combeferre nods again. Beside him, Eponine looks up at Enjolras, offers a wide smile, and goes back to picking at the loose threads of her jeans. Enjolras feels like he should say something else, maybe a warning that Grantaire isn’t in a very good place now, but instead he just goes back downstairs and leaves the club. 

 

It’s warm outside, but Enjolras feels cold. Alone. He ignores everyone loitering on the streets, high teenagers and drunk men, and tourists who like to think they’re cool. He ignores the hooker on the corner, who offers a cheap blowjob, and continues hustling down the street with his head low. He doesn’t want to attract attention to himself, not now. He just needs to get home. 

 

The apartment feels… well, it feels a little empty. Unfamiliar. Like it’s missing something, which it is. Enjolras is so used to having Grantaire here with him, that an apartment without him almost doesn’t feel like home. He sighs, drops his jacket on the couch, and heads over to his room. Their room. He doesn’t know anymore. What does it matter, anyways? There can’t be a “them” if Grantaire’s not even there.

 

~

 

When Combeferre and Courfeyrac finally get back, close to two in the morning, they find Enjolras curled up on his bed, hugging a pillow. He looks like he’s been crying. 

 

The next morning, when Enjolras shuffles into the kitchen with a red nose and watery eyes, Combeferre doesn’t ask. He knows. He just wishes he knew how to help. 

 

~

 

For the first time in a very long time, Les Amis are going to have another one of their infamous sleepovers. At least, they’re having a meeting to discuss it. Even though he hasn’t been to one in months, Enjolras isn’t particularly excited. He knows that the demon - Grantaire, dammit - is still out there, somewhere. And maybe it feels a little weird to do something without Grantaire there. It’s more than a little weird. 

 

“You sure you’re okay?” Combeferre asks, holding the Musain’s door open. 

 

Enjolras nods absentmindedly. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

 

Combeferre sees past the lie, and it’s not a very convincing one, anyway. He doesn’t say anything, though. Neither does Enjolras. Musichetta smiles at them when they walk in, but even her happy vibe falters. Enjolras knows he probably looks sad. But he doesn’t care. 

 

“What is good, bitches?” Eponine asks, from where she’s playing a game of Go Fish with Courfeyrac. It’s her new favourite catchphrase. 

 

Enjolras shrugs and pulls a chair up. “Nothing.”

 

“Nothing’s good?” Eponine raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “Okay. So I’m assuming you didn’t fuck.”

 

Enjolras frowns at her. “What does that have to do with anything?”

 

Eponine glances at her cards, and then waves her hand in a vague gesture. “Got any aces?” She asks Courfeyrac. He shakes his head. She sighs, and turns back to Enjolras. “Well, people usually aren’t sad if they’re, y’know, fucking. And besides, it’s been scientifically proven to make you happier.”

 

Courfeyrac nods. “She’s not wrong. Got any fours?”

 

Eponine curses under her breath and hands over a card. Enjolras looks over at her cards. She’s still winning. Eponine always wins at Go Fish, even if she’s completely wasted. 

 

“You guys remember Ashley, right?” Bahorel says, running up to their table. He can’t just ever say “hi”.

 

Combeferre frowns. “Who?”

 

“Ashley,” Bahorel repeats, like that tells them anything. The just keep staring at him. He sighs. “ _ Ashley. _ The pretty American I hooked up with last night.”

 

“We don’t keep track of your sexual exploits,” Combeferre says.

 

Courfeyrac slams the table with his hand like he does when he’s excited. “I remember her! She was blonde, right? And she had green eyes? And she was the one who kept saying you were a cute French guy!”

 

“Yeah!” Bahorel says. They nod at each other in remembrance. 

 

“Okay, so now that we’ve established who Ashley is,” Eponine drawls, “why the fuck should we care?”

 

Bahorel drags a chair up to the table. “She works at Bath & Body Works, right, so she gave me a 20% off coupon. Nice deal, right?”

 

Combeferre looks confused. Courfeyrac squeals. Eponine takes this opportunity to look at Courfeyrac’s cards. 

 

“Got a queen?” She asks.

 

Courfeyrac pouts and hands her the three he was hoarding, and then Eponine places another pile down. It’s impressive, how good she is. 

 

“There isn’t a Bath & Body Works in France,” Combeferre says, like it’s obvious. Well, it is, sort of. Even Enjolras knows that.

 

Bahorel scoffs. “But Italy has one.”

 

Enjolras stops paying attention when Courfeyrac and Bahorel start debating which body scrub is the best. He can’t seem to think about anything besides the demon, and it’s bothering him. As long as the demon - Grantaire - stays out of his path, it’ll be okay. He’ll find a way to get Grantaire back. He’ll find a way to exorcise the demon without hurting him. He’ll find a way, because he always finds a way. And then he wonders, for the first time since that night at the bar, when this happened. When, in those two days after the fall, Grantaire got possessed. How it happened. What was he thinking about, when he realized the demon was going to possess him? 

 

_ Was he thinking about me? _

 

Enjolras suddenly loses his train of thought. All of Les Amis (he didn’t notice when the rest arrived, apparently) are looking in the same direction - the door - with wide eyes. Enjolras follows their gaze, his breathing growing rapid.

 

Grantaire walks in with those aviators and the leather jacket, heading straight for their table. Enjolras feels his heart pound wildly, and he stands up (why, he doesn’t really know - it just makes him feel a lot braver). He’s the only one who knows that he isn’t really Grantaire, that he’s a demon. He wants to say something, but the words die on his tongue. 

 

Grantaire takes his sunglasses off, briefly glances at Les Amis, and then turns his attention on Enjolras. He grins, but it’s threatening. 

 

“Hey, baby,” he says. God, he’s doing a terrible job of sounding realistic. Grantaire - the real one - never talks like that. He wraps his arms around Enjolras’ waist, possessively, and tugs him closer. “I’ve been looking for you.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say. How can he play along, and pretend that everything’s okay? He can’t lie to his friends like that. Grantaire’s grip on him tightens, and his smile falters. His eyes turn black for a swift second. Enjolras is the only one who saw. 

 

“Let’s go,” Grantaire says. He sounds a little angrier than he did before. “I’ve got some things I’d like to do to you. I’m sure it’ll be fun.”

 

Enjolras is frozen. He feels like he’s going to have a heart attack. “B-but I… there’s a meeting-”

 

Grantaire smile disappears entirely. He leans in close, his lips pressed against Enjolras’ ear, and whispers: “You’re my fucking property, golden boy. Remember that.”

 

Enjolras nods. Grantaire steps back, his threatening smile gracing his lips again. With his arm still tight around Enjolras’ waist, he sits down, and tugs Enjolras on him. Enjolras feels Les Amis’ eyes burning into him, questions half-formed in their minds. Combeferre looks extremely worried, but he doesn’t say anything. He’ll wait until Grantaire isn’t there, and then he’ll talk. 

 

Enjolras has never been in an abusive relationship, but he realizes, with a cold, sinking feeling, that this is the direction they’re going in. Grantaire - the demon, what’s the difference anymore - will take advantage of him, use him like an object, and Les Amis will stay silent about it. They’ll say,  _ we told you, Enjolras. We told you this would happen. We warned you.  _ And he’ll have to endure it until Grantaire comes back, if he ever comes back at all. 

 

He doesn’t pay much attention to everything Combeferre says. Something about Musichetta hosting it, or making her in charge of food, or whatever. Something along the lines of “no, Courf, we’re not using your cookie cutters. Why? Because they’re dick-shaped, that’s why,” followed by loud laughter. The only thing he pays attention to is Grantaire’s hands on his waist, on his legs, on his shoulders. The kisses he plants like ownership stickers on his throat, his face, his hands. And he’s aware of Les Amis’ constant staring, the uneasiness in their expressions. 

 

“I was going to go out tonight,” Grantaire says suddenly, pressing kisses on his jaw, “but I don’t think I want to anymore.” He pauses, looks at Enjolras, and grins. “Why go out when I’ve got a pretty young thing like you right here?”

 

Combeferre’s jaw tenses. His hands are clenched into fists. He’s obviously not very pleased with that comment. Eponine’s face turns a little pale, her eyes going wide like melting discs of chocolate. Even Courfeyrac, who can always find the good in every situation, looks slightly nervous. 

 

“Well, go on,” Grantaire snaps. Enjolras feels like he can’t breathe anymore. “I want to hear more about this sleepover of yours. Sounds nice.”

 

Combeferre frowns at him. It’s unsettling. He clears his throat and turns to face the others. “Where were we? Right, sleeping arrangements-”

 

Enjolras zones out again. He knows Combeferre will go over this again tomorrow, just in case anyone forgot, so there’s no point remembering it all today. He can’t focus, anyway. It’d be a fruitless attempt. He just nods whenever Combeferre turns to him, pretending to be engaged, and ignores the numb coldness of Grantaire’s hands, the fear-induced pounding of his heart. He’ll ignore it all, put up with it all, if it means getting Grantaire back. 

 

(He doesn’t really know if that’s going to happen. But Enjolras is holding onto that one last bit of hope, anyway. He hasn’t reached the end of his tunnel yet.)

 

-

 

Enjolras doesn’t really see Grantaire for three days, but he still gets nightmares. He’ll hear stories from Eponine about which girls Grantaire danced with at which bar last night, about how many drinks he had, about how weird he’s acting. And then he’ll go home, and he’ll dream of familiar black eyes and marks of possession that spill blood like fountains. 

 

Les Amis are obviously suspicious, but Enjolras can’t tell them anything. He doesn’t want to know how far the demon would go, and he’s not about to risk his friends’ lives just to get something off his chest. So when Combeferre says he’s worried, or Courfeyrac asks if they got into a fight, Enjolras just puts on a brave face and plays along. 

 

_ He’s probably busy,  _ he says.  _ There’s nothing to be worried about. _

 

He’s in the middle of one of those nightmares (Grantaire, not as the demon but as himself, strangles Enjolras with his hands while he’s kissing him) when he wakes up to the sound of a door being slammed. He jolts awake, eyes wide and heart hammering. He hears nothing. And then the unmistakable patter of footsteps.

 

He quietly steps out of bed and shuffles to the open doorway. It’s weird, having his door open at night. He’s so used to keeping it closed. Enjolras takes a deep breath and peers out, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dark. He can’t see anything, anyone, and then-

 

Then he does. 

 

Grantaire’s leaning against the wall, staring at nothing, his hands stuffed in his pockets. When Enjolras’ vision gets a little clearer, he realizes that Grantaire isn’t staring at nothing. He’s staring at him. 

 

Enjolras opens his mouth to speak, perhaps ask where the hell he’s been, but Grantaire lifts a finger and shakes his head. 

 

“Wouldn’t want to wake your friends up, would you?” He whispers, smiling sardonically. 

 

He doesn’t really care about not waking Combeferre and Courfeyrac up, though. If he did, he wouldn’t be talking. He cares about making sure Enjolras knows his place - that is, as Grantaire’s private property. One of those toys he can tell to shut up or speak whenever he desires. And Enjolras, who used to place himself on a high pedestal of human dignity, tolerates it all with burning shame. He knows he should do something, but he just can’t.

 

(Can’t or won’t, it doesn’t matter. The answer is both. He can’t because he’s too scared, he doesn’t know how, he doesn’t want to risk anything. He won’t because he knows,  _ he knows _ , that Grantaire’s still there somewhere.)

 

Grantaire pouts. “Don’t look so sad, pet. I hate feeling sympathetic for objects.”

 

Enjolras feels like he should say something, maybe clarify that he isn’t an object, he’s a person, but somehow it doesn’t feel right. Every time he’s around Grantaire now, he feels like an object. Like he’s been demoted from actual human being to toy. And it’s dehumanizing, but it still feels… okay. Like he was never a human being in the first place. Like he’s finding his place in this messed-up world, and his place is being someone else’s property.

 

“You see,” Grantaire says, “objects lose a bit of their worth after they’ve been used. And you-” Grantaire’s eyes rake over his body, and he chuckles. Enjolras feels uneasy. “Well, you’re not worth as much as you used to be. I can deal with that, though. Reduce, reuse, recycle.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything. He knows what Grantaire means. He knows he’s not the innocent virgin Grantaire wants him to be, wants to deflower, wants to rip the pretty petals off of. He knows. And somehow he feels sad, almost guilty, for not living up to those standards. Like he’s a failure, in some twisted way. Like he’s been given a set of strict instructions and done the wrong thing. He hates that feeling, but it just won’t go away. 

 

Grantaire walks up to Enjolras and places a hand on either side of his face. Enjolras thinks he sees something - something familiar, something he knows - in his eyes, but he can’t let himself believe that. Reality is an illusion. He’s just forcing himself to see things that aren’t, and never will be, there as a coping method. 

 

“I find the best objects to be the ones that have already belonged to someone else,” Grantaire says, his voice low. His hands caress Enjolras’ face, like he’s trying to comfort him before sending him off to the slaughterhouse. “The books with bits of commentary scribbled in the margins, the dolls with chipped paint, the walls with measurements written in faded pencil. It makes everything more exciting, knowing you’ve got something that someone else used to love, hold, play with. And you get to make it all yours.”

 

Enjolras’s breath hitches in his throat. Grantaire moves his hand onto his chest, and frowns. He almost looks disappointed. He hooks two fingers under Enjolras’ chin, keeping his gaze steady. 

 

“Aw, a little nervous now, are we?” Grantaire leans in close, kisses his cheek. It feels like a death sentence. Like the noose slipping around his neck. “There’s nothing to be nervous of, hun. Pain is just misunderstood pleasure.”

 

When Grantaire tilts Enjolras’ head and slots their lips together, Enjolras wants to believe he kisses back. That for a few moments, he’s kissing Grantaire again, and everything’s okay. But he knows it’s just mechanical movements, subconscious actions he’s used to performing. His mouth moves against Grantaire’s, like he’s reading off of a script. And kissing… kissing he can do.

 

But he can’t do anything more.

 

Grantaire moves his hands to Enjolras’ waist and starts trying to slide his shirt up, maneuver them back inside Enjolras’ room and onto the bed. Enjolras tries to push his hands away, but Grantaire’s much stronger than he is. 

 

They fall on his bed with a loud thud, and Grantaire continues kissing him roughly, running his hands over his body. Enjolras can’t do this. He doesn’t want to have sex, not now. He squirms under Grantaire, tries to push him off - and when he realizes what Enjolras is attempting to do, Grantaire hauls him up and slams him against the wall, one hand on either side of his throat. Enjolras can’t breathe properly. Grantaire doesn’t  _ want _ him to breathe.

 

“Did I ever ask for your fucking opinion?” Grantaire asks.

 

Enjolras wants to say something, but he only chokes. He feels constricted. Grantaire’s slowly suffocating him, his grip growing tighter and tighter with every passing second. It’s a punishment. 

 

“No, I fucking didn’t,” Grantaire says. Enjolras feels himself shaking, crying, tears spilling down his cheek. The real Grantaire would wipe them away, kiss him, hold him, comfort him - but this Grantaire doesn’t do anything. “I own you, pet. Stop thinking you’ve got a say in things.”

 

Just as he leans in to kiss (no, that’s the wrong word - claim seems more suitable) him, they hear the muffled sound of quiet footsteps in the hallway. Grantaire’s eyes go alarmingly wide and he takes his hands off of Enjolras’ throat. Enjolras lets out an inaudible breath of relief. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done - what would’ve happened - if someone hadn’t woken up. 

 

Combeferre comes into view, standing in the open doorway. Even in the darkness, Enjolras can tell he’s confused. 

 

“Enjolras?” He asks, his voice groggy with sleep. “You okay?”

 

Enjolras glances at Grantaire and opens his mouth to respond, but Grantaire silences him with his hand and shakes his head. 

 

“Everything’s fine,” he says. 

 

There’s a beat of silence. Grantaire looks at Enjolras, mouths  _ you make one sound and I’ll fucking kill you _ , and slides off the bed. He blocks Enjolras’ view of Combeferre, so he shifts his position so that he at least has a narrow window between Grantaire and the door. 

 

“What are you doing here?” Combeferre snaps. He sounds really irritated, and that’s something he constantly tries to hide. 

 

Grantaire says something along the lines of “aren’t I just allowed to visit?” but Enjolras can’t hear him properly. 

 

Combeferre crosses his arms. This is serious business. “What the hell are you doing here, Grantaire? You’ve been off… I don’t even know, partying or whatever, for three days, and all of a sudden you’ve taken an interest in Enjolras again. What. Are. You. Doing. Back.”

 

“It’s a little personal,” Grantaire says, laughing nervously. 

 

“Spit it out.” Combeferre’s unfazed. 

 

Enjolras’ heart hammers in his chest. He wonders what Grantaire’s going to do now. He’s always been unpredictable, but it’s worsened now that he’s, well, not himself. 

 

“I just wanted a quick fuck,” he says, shrugging. “Is that such a crime?”

 

Enjolras feels sick. Of course. He should’ve thought about that, should’ve expected this Grantaire wouldn’t attach sentiment to sex. Maybe this time he was a little too hopeful for his own good. 

 

“A quick fuck?” Combeferre repeats, incredulous. He sounds angry. “ _ A quick fuck _ ? Enjolras is not just someone you can bang and leave. I can’t-” Combeferre takes a deep breath. “I thought better of you.”

 

“That’s not my fault.” Grantaire turns to make sure Enjolras is still there, winks at him, and then turns back to face Combeferre. “And it’s not your business, anyway. You’re not the one I’m fucking.”

 

God, Enjolras hates that term. Fucking. It sounds so insincere, careless, like he’s a prostitute Grantaire paid a few bucks to indulge in. Like he’s worthless, an object and not a human. It makes him feel even more sick than he already does. Grantaire - at least, not the demon - would never say that. He always said “sex,” not “fucking”. He always sounded like he cared about Enjolras, even if it was just because he served a higher purpose. 

 

Combeferre doesn’t say anything. He glances over Grantaire’s shoulder, and his eyes meet Enjolras’. 

 

He seems to be asking,  _ are you okay? _

 

Enjolras nods.  _ Yes. _

 

He doesn’t really know why he continues to lie. Theoretically, he wasn’t told not to say anything about the abuse, or the exploitation, or the sudden reappearances. He was only told not to say anything about the demon, and that’s perfectly avoidable. He could just say they’re having issues. That Grantaire’s mad at something Atropos said or did, and this is just how he’s letting it out. And it’d be so easy,  _ so very easy _ , to lie and say that. But he knows Les Amis won’t buy his bullshit. They’ve seen Grantaire when he’s angry, and when they’re fighting. They know he doesn’t go around taking shots at bars and fucking people. It’d be pointless, because there’s some things he can’t just explain. 

 

Combeferre doesn’t look entirely convinced. “I don’t think Enj-”

 

Grantaire slams the door before he can finish the sentence. He slowly turns to face Enjolras, his eyes clouded with some unspeakable emotion. Enjolras has always been able to read him, but today he can’t. It terrifies him, because everything he thought he knew about Grantaire has been tossed out the window. He doesn’t like thinking about it, but perhaps he should start getting to know this new Grantaire. The demon. 

 

“Did you tell him anything?” Grantaire asks, his voice dripping with venom. 

 

“You would’ve heard me,” Enjolras says. 

 

Grantaire’s suddenly leaning over him, a hand on either side of his face. He looks deathly furious, but he doesn’t say anything. He just watches Enjolras with calculating, glowing eyes. Enjolras wonders what he’s going to do. It’d be so easy to kiss him, or throw him down and fuck him, or kill him. Grantaire could do whatever he wanted, and Enjolras isn’t sure he’d be able to stop him. 

 

He forces himself to look up and meet Grantaire’s eyes, and for a second it feels like he’s looking at the real Grantaire, the man he knows, again. He sees those same eyes that said  _ I love you _ , the same blue that comforted him on sleepless nights like ocean waves. He closes his eyes and leans into Grantaire’s touch. 

 

“I know you’re in there,” he says softly. 

 

But then Grantaire leans in close, his lips brushing Enjolras’ cheek like the blade of a knife, and whispers: “Your Grantaire is gone, sugar.”

 

And then he kisses him again, greedy and rough and unsentimental. Enjolras gives in completely, submits himself to Grantaire’s commands. He’s numb during most of those fifteen minutes, and he barely pays attention to anything that happens. Grantaire tells him, in that familiar hoarse sex voice, to turn over. He does. Grantaire holds his wrists against the wall until he can’t feel his hands. He doesn’t fight back. 

 

And when Grantaire leaves unceremoniously, it takes him a few minutes to register what happened. To realize that he let himself be used in such a terrible way, to realize he never tried to stop it. To realize that whatever chance there was that Grantaire was still there is gone, that he’s never getting Grantaire back, that this is what his nights are going to be like from now on. And when he’s processed all of that, he breaks down. He sits on his bed, hugging his knees to his chest, and cries. 

 

He cries, and cries, and cries, and keeps crying even when no tears come out. He cries until he hears Combeferre’s muffled voice in the hallway, and then he forces himself to stop, pretend that everything’s okay, he got some sleep, everything’s fine with Grantaire. 

 

Combeferre doesn’t buy his bullshit act. But that was never the point. 

 

(The point, as much as he likes to pretend otherwise, wasn’t to keep this a secret like he said he would. The point was to try and convince himself that everything’s okay. Isn’t that what people say to do, anyway? Keep telling yourself something until you believe it?)

 

~

 

“I’m worried,” Combeferre says. He feels like he’s been saying this twenty times a day for the past eight months.

 

He’s at the Musain with Courfeyrac, Eponine and Feuilly - they’re the only ones who could make it to lunch, and he’s grateful they could make it at all, because he did just text everyone that morning. They left Enjolras at home, watching  _ Love, Actually _ with a blank face. Combeferre knows he’s hiding something, but he doesn’t know what.

 

(That’s a partial lie, though. He knows it has something to do with Grantaire, which is obvious. But he doesn’t know anything else.)

 

Eponine sighs, resting her chin on her hand. She looks exhausted. “I think we all are. They’ve both been acting so weirdly.”

 

“Who’s been acting weirdly?” Feuilly asks. He places their drinks on the table and slides in next to Eponine. 

 

“Enjolras and Grantaire,” Combeferre says. He stares down at his coffee, watching curls of steam fade away. 

 

Courfeyrac taps his fingers on the table, eyes narrowed pensively. No one says anything for a few minutes. They still don’t really know what’s going on with Enjolras and Grantaire, but they do know that something’s wrong. Grantaire’s not being himself, and Enjolras spends every waking minute either in tears or on the verge of crying. And then there was that whole thing last night, which Combeferre still doesn’t understand. 

 

“They probably just had an argument,” Feuilly says. He looks unsure. “I mean, they’re barely talking.”

 

Combeferre sighs. “Yeah, and when they  _ do _ talk, it’s about fucking.”

 

Eponine raises an eyebrow. She looks confused. “What?”

 

“It’s just-” Combeferre pauses, sipping his coffee. “Last night, Grantaire apparently stopped by for a quick fuck. With Enjolras. And he just… he didn’t seem like himself. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like, either he’s interested in fucking Enjolras and treating him like an otherwise useless object, or he’s off drinking alcohol and grinding against five vulnerable girls.”

 

“Maybe you should talk to Enj,” Feuilly suggests. 

 

Eponine shakes her head. “No, he won’t talk. You know that. He’ll just keep telling us that everything’s okay. We’ve got to get him to someone he will talk to, before this gets even worse - whatever  _ this _ is.”

 

Combeferre doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. He knows that Eponine’s right, that Enjolras won’t talk to them. But if he won’t talk to them, the chances of him talking to someone else are extremely slim. 

 

“Who do you suggest?” He asks.

 

Eponine’s eyes are cloudy when she looks up at him. She bites her lip. “I think you know.”

 

~

 

It’s not that Enjolras doesn’t understand why he’s here. He knows. Combeferre explained it to him five times in the car, and once more in the elevator. He just doesn’t understand why. 

 

_ I think you just need to talk to someone, _ Combeferre said.

 

_ If I wanted to talk, I’d find someone,  _ Enjolras replied. 

 

Even though he refused to go countless times, he’s still sitting in some therapist’s waiting room, listening to soft music and surrounded by several other troubled people. Except, he’s not troubled. He’s not. He has absolutely no reason to be here, apart from his friends’ constant nagging that “something’s wrong”. He slumps in his chair and sighs. Why do they have to be so perceptive?

 

“It won’t be that bad,” Combeferre says. “Floreal’s a good therapist.”

 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow and snorts. “How do you know?”

 

“Dr. Lestrade recommended her.” Combeferre’s voice is quiet. 

 

Enjolras turns to face him, eyes narrowed. “You talked to him?”

 

“Well, I didn’t know who else to turn to.” Combeferre sighs. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He probably hasn’t been getting much sleep. “Listen, I want to help you, Enj. I do. But I don’t know how. And you’re not cooperating. So, yeah, I talked to Dr. Lestrade, and because he’s not a therapist, he suggested to take you to one. So that’s what I’m doing.” He pauses, and then hesitantly continues. “Besides, I used to go here. I know Floreal’s good.”

 

“What? Why did you see a therapist?”

 

Combeferre shrugs. He looks a little uncomfortable. “I was just really stressed out when we started university. I had all this responsibility to be a great son, and do good things, and make my parents proud, and I… I mean, I think I let them down. With the whole Courf thing.”

 

“The Courf thing,” Enjolras echoes. He has no idea what that means.

 

Combeferre sighs. “Being gay. I think they’re still waiting for the day I come home with a wife and four kids, you know?”

 

“But your parents love Courf,” Enjolras counters. He knows Combeferre’s parents love him, and it doesn’t seem like them to hope he’s secretly straight. 

 

“Yeah,” Combeferre says, “but that’s because they’ve known him since forever. I mean, if I came home next Christmas with some other guy, they’d react differently. I mean, it’s not an issue now. I’m over it. It’s my life, right?”

 

“But it used to be an issue,” Enjolras says. “Why didn’t you talk to us about it?”

 

Combeferre shrugs again. “I didn’t want to load my problems on you.”

 

“You wouldn’t hav-”

 

Before Enjolras can finish his sentence, a young woman with ebony curls approaches them, a clipboard tucked under her arm. She’s giving off that recognizably warm therapist vibe, and she smells like eucalyptus. 

 

“Julian?” She asks.

 

It takes Enjolras a few seconds to register that she’s talking to him. He hasn’t heard his first name in a long time, and he doesn’t like hearing it (it’s the name his parents chose for him, and he hates being associated with them). 

 

“Yeah, that’s me,” he says.

 

The woman - presumably Floreal - extends her hand. Her grip is gentle, warm, comforting. Like a hug. She greets Combeferre with the usual “so nice to see you again, how are you doing,” which Enjolras politely ignores. And when she’s done chatting with him, Enjolras follows her into her office. It’s eucalyptus scent is even stronger (there’s a diffuser at the back of the room, that’s why), and there’s an electric candle on the little glass table. 

 

“So what brings you here today?” Floreal asks, taking a seat in a mustard armchair. 

 

Enjolras takes the chair opposite her. It’s dark green, and there’s a stiff embroidered pillow behind his back. “I actually don’t know.”

 

“Okay,” she says, nodding. She places her clipboard on her lap. “Well, your friend said you’re having some domestic problems. Is that true?”

 

“No,” Enjolras blurts. “I mean, it depends what you call domestic problems.”

 

Floreal writes something down, nodding to herself. “Well, it can mean anything from disputes to frequent abuse. I’ve seen many people like you, Julian. People who are afraid to admit their home life isn’t paradise. And I want to help you deal with it before it gets even worse.” Enjolras makes a face. She writes something else down. “Would you like to tell me your problems are?”

 

Enjolras shifts in the armchair. “No.”

 

Floreal sighs. “Okay. Would you like to tell me what your friend thinks your problems are? Or why he sent you here?”

 

Enjolras wants to talk to her. He desperately wants to tell her everything, about the demons and the angels and Grantaire, but he can’t. He knows he’ll sound crazy, and she’ll tell him he’s delusional, and he’ll have to go to weekly appointments. And she’ll never take him seriously because “demons and angels don’t exist” and “people can’t get possessed,” and she’ll tell him it’s okay, he’s okay, they’ll deal with it together. But she can’t exactly help him. 

 

“I don’t know why,” Enjolras lies. 

 

Floreal nods again. She glances at her clipboard. “Your friend told me you were having some problems with your partner. Can you elaborate? What might he mean by that?”

 

Enjolras shrugs and crosses his arms. He can’t elaborate, because he doesn’t trust himself to not say anything. He’ll accidentally let it spill that Grantaire - no, not Grantaire, the demon - is abusing him, that he feels the need to stand up for himself but it just doesn’t seem right. He’ll say something he isn’t supposed to, and then Grantaire will kill him, like he said he would. 

 

He feels tears running down his cheeks (hot, angry, burning), and he feels Floreal’s gaze on him. He doesn’t know why he’s crying, but it doesn’t matter. He’s angry, dammit. Upset. Terrified of the future because the future might include the demon, and he doesn’t want that. Terrified for his friends because they don’t know what they’re stepping into. Floreal doesn’t say anything for a long time. She just sits there, legs crossed, hands resting lightly on her clipboard. She looks at him with unspoken compassion.

 

“It’s okay,” she says, “take your time. We’ve all been in bad places.”

 

“Not like me,” Enjolras snaps. He wipes his tears away and frowns at the floor. He shakes his head. “You haven’t… god, I sound like a cliche, but you haven’t seen the things I’ve seen. You haven’t been in those bad places. No one will. Because… because-”

 

He starts crying again, and everything he wanted to say just fades. Floreal doesn’t say anything else; she just lets him keep crying until their time is up, and Enjolras has to put on a straight face and convince Combeferre that he’s okay, everything’s okay, the therapist doesn’t think there’s a problem.

 

“So it didn’t go well,” Combeferre says, as they drive back home.

 

“Nothing’s going well,” Enjolras says.

 

-

 

Grantaire comes again that night, and this time there are no formalities. He doesn’t waste time in getting Enjolras undressed, on the bed, under him and unable to leave. He puts a hand over Enjolras’ mouth the entire time. And when he leaves, Enjolras starts crying again, all those tears he had held up inside suddenly spilling out. 

 

Combeferre comes to check up on him, but Enjolras doesn’t make a point of hiding anything. He’s too damn tired to keep pretending. So he lets Combeferre crawl into bed with him, doesn’t fight back when he hugs him, and sleeps better than he has in a few days. 

 

-

 

Enjolras doesn’t see Grantaire for a week, and he almost forgets about it. He can’t ever forget everything, but he forgets about the demon - well, that’s not entirely true. He convinces himself that Grantaire’s just on an important mission, that he’s busy, and that the demon was just a result of his insecurities. He likes to think it works.

 

And for the most part, Les Amis play along. They don’t bring it up, or if they do, Enjolras isn’t there. They seem much happier than they were before, and it’s almost like none of this ever happened. Like that protest that started it all went well, and Enjolras was never hospitalised, and they don’t have a fucking demon on their hands. 

 

“You seem to be doing better,” Combeferre says hesitantly.

 

They’re at Saint-Germain-des-Pres, wandering through narrow streets and browsing unavoidably hipster bookstores. It’s an almost insufferable place, with all its tourists, but Enjolras really needed to go somewhere he didn’t associate with Grantaire. 

 

(And besides, as much as he hates to admit it, Cafe de Flore makes unbelievably good coffee.)

 

They’re all somewhere in the vicinity of the neighbourhood - Enjolras knows for certain that Courfeyrac and Cosette are at AP.C., and he heard Jehan say something about going to Buly 1803. But everyone else just gradually disappeared over the course of their walk, and now it’s just Combeferre and Enjolras making their way to Boulevard Raspail. 

 

“Better than what?” Enjolras asks. 

 

His phone beeps in his pocket. It’s a text from Eponine:  _ at boulevard raspail. gav wants food. got money? _

 

He sends off a text.  _ On our way. _

 

Combeferre shrugs. He glares at a frazzled American woman as she elbows past them, her voice growing louder by the second as she yells after some children. “Just better than you were before. I mean, I don’t want to talk about it if you don’t want to, but… it seems like you’re okay.”

 

“I guess,” Enjolras says. His coffee’s getting cold. “Let’s just enjoy the market, okay? No serious talk.”

 

Combeferre nods. “No serious talk.”

 

-

 

Grantaire comes over every night for the next two weeks. He waits until Combeferre and Courfeyrac are in their room (sometimes, he’s not patient enough for that), and then he proceeds to take advantage of Enjolras like he’s a slave. And for those first few nights, Enjolras tries to fight back. It only makes his situation worse, but at least he’s doing something. At least he’s trying. 

 

He’s stopped crying every time Grantaire leaves. Now, whenever the door closes and he’s left alone with his broken body, he’s only filled with a sort of calming numbness. And as much as he hates thinking about it, it’s like he’s gained immunity. Like he’s slowly adapting to this new, hostile environment. 

 

And the world has always been about the survival of the fittest, right? Isn’t that exactly what he’s doing?

 

(Combeferre, like the good friend he is, takes notice of Enjolras’ new immunity. Enjolras overhears him tell Courfeyrac it’s “not healthy.” But what’s healthy, just like what’s okay, is subjective.) 

 

-

 

Enjolras wakes up from a particularly good dream (something about Cosette and Eponine getting married, and Courfeyrac bringing home a talking fish named Vienna, and Grantaire owning a bookstore where he got discounts), only to find himself in a less-good reality. Grantaire’s sitting on his bed, holding a dagger in his hands.

 

“Your friends aren’t here, by the way,” he says, running his thumb over the dagger’s blade.

 

Enjolras tries to get up, but there’s something cutting against his wrists. He takes a sharp breath, biting his lip. Grantaire’s got him tied to the bed. 

 

“You’re not very good at cooperating, are you?” Grantaire sighs. “I was hoping you’d ask me what’s up, and then I could explain my elaborate plan to you.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything. He has a feeling he knows what’s going on, but he really hopes he’s wrong. Instead, he opts to ask about the handcuffs.

 

“Where did you get them?” He asks.

 

“Borrowed them from Eponine,” Grantaire says, grinning wildly. “She didn’t question it.”

 

Enjolras frowns. “Why does Eponine have- oh, god, never mind. I don’t want to know.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t respond. He frowns at the floor, eyes glazed with a wall of impassive obsidian, and taps his fingers in an offbeat rhythm. When he glances up at Enjolras again, there’s liberty written on his face - not the kind Enjolras dreams of, but the kind one gets from letting go of one’s inhibitions. It’s nerve-wracking. 

 

“Don’t you want to know what I’m doing?” He asks. He sounds like he’s promising something. Liberty is his cult’s promise. Unpredictability is his cult’s way.

 

Enjolras swallows his fear. “I do.”

 

“Do you remember your mission?” Grantaire tilts his head, eyes narrowed. He briefly glances up at Enjolras, and his eyes glint pure black. “The one you were originally sent on? I bet you don’t, it’s been so long since you’ve done anything about it. That stuff you’re supposed to know? Did your Grantaire ask for it?”

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything. His heart beats faster with every second. And this Grantaire has a point, anyway - no one’s asked if he’s remembered anything yet, even though that’s apparently what he’s needed for. They’ve been so busy dealing with Ariel and demons and  - god, Enjolras doesn’t even know why they spent so much time on this - their relationship, of all things. 

 

Grantaire puts a hand on Enjolras’ cheek and slams him against the wall. “Did he ask for it?”

 

“No,” Enjolras says quietly. 

 

Grantaire grins. “Well, I’ve always been a bit impatient.”

 

Enjolras wants to ask what that means, what’s going to happen, but he already knows He sees the dagger. He feels the handcuffs. He knows damn well what’s going to happen. 

 

“Congratulations, you’ve won Least Cooperative Torture Victim.” Grantaire lets out an annoyed breath. “Is it too early for you? Should I wake you up again in a few hours, would that help? This is so much more fun when I’m not, you know, doing it all by myself.”

 

Enjolras glares at him and snarls, “Just get it over with.”

 

Grantaire thumbs the edge of the dagger, smiling to himself. “You’re right, I don’t have all day. I’ve got an appointment at twelve. But that doesn’t mean I’m letting you off easy.”

 

“What are you going to do?” Enjolras asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He tries to get his wrists out of the handcuffs, but he can’t. It’s impossible. He has no way out. 

 

“What am I going to do?” Grantaire laughs, shaking his head. He leans forward and rests the tip of the dagger against Enjolras’s bare chest. It’s cold and sharp and curiously familiar. (Grantaire’s hand are cold. Always have been. Maybe Enjolras is just used to it.) “ _ What am I going to do? _ What do you think, you fucking moron? I’m going to leave a mark. I’ll claim you as mine, mine, mine. I’ll carve my name into your skin and everyone will know whose slut you are.

 

“But you’re wondering-” Grantaire pauses, eyes narrowed. The dagger slips from his hand and leaves a small, jagged cut. Enjolras bites his lip. His heart pounds a mile a minute, but he can’t let Grantaire know he’s in pain. He can’t. “You’re wondering,  _ what’s the point of all this _ , aren’t you? I’ll tell you, pet. You see, recent data - well, it’s not official, but who cares - has shown that people are more willing to share information when they’re being tortured.”

 

Enjolras takes a sharp breath. The dagger slips from Grantaire’s hand again. He’s starting to think it wasn’t an accident. “That’s not true.”

 

“You don’t get a say in what’s true and what’s not,” Grantaire says. “The truth is easily manipulated, don’t you see? Truth is subjective. Reality is subjective. No one asks for a pet’s opinion.”

 

Enjolras pushes against the handcuffs, frowning. If he’s going to die, he might as well die victoriously. He might as well die trying. “I’m not a-”

 

Grantaire puts a finger against his lips. “Shh. That’s where you’re wrong.” He pushes down on the tip of the dagger and Enjolras feels it pressing into his chest, but he doesn’t do anything. “For everything you say that steps out of line, you’ll earn yourself another mark.” The dagger slips. There’s a flash of searing, mind-numbing pain. “And another, and on and on until-”

 

Grantaire suddenly freezes, eyes wide. Enjolras hears the front door open, and Courfeyrac’s laughter echoes in the apartment. Whatever Grantaire was planning, he can’t do it now. He’ll get caught. And maybe… maybe the demon will go away. Maybe Enjolras will get his Grantaire back. 

 

“Don’t make a sound,” Grantaire whispers. He quietly sets the dagger down and starts taking the handcuffs off. “If your friends ever find out, you’re dead.”

 

Enjolras waits patiently until his wrists are free, and then goes to grab a shirt from his closet. He knows he got lucky this time, but Grantaire will obviously keep trying to pry information out of him, and he won’t always be this fortunate. And as much as he wants to have his Grantaire again, he’d rather not die. And if he’s dead, who knows what’ll happen to his friends? 

 

“Hey, Enj, are you home?” Courfeyrac calls out. 

 

Enjolras looks at Grantaire, hoping for some reassurance that it’s okay for him to go out, but he doesn’t say anything. 

 

“Enj?” 

 

“Yeah,” Enjolras says. He glances at Grantaire one more time before going out. 

 

Courfeyrac and Combeferre are unloading groceries in the kitchen, talking about something Musichetta told them. It takes them a few moments to realize that Enjolras is also there. 

 

“Why didn’t you come with us?” Combeferre asks. He sniffs an old pack of cheese, frowns, and puts it back in the fridge. 

 

Enjolras shrugs and sits down at their table. “I slept in.”

 

“Well, that’s your loss,” Courfeyrac says. “The market was crazy this morning. There were, like, five arguments over cheese, and this guy - this one guy even tried to steal eggs, can you believe it?”

 

Enjolras stares at him for a solid minute and says, “Yeah, Courf, people do that all the time.”

 

“Oh, right.” Courfeyrac just shrugs and continues unpacking their groceries. They must’ve stopped at Monoprix on their way home, because there’s a box of animal crackers Enjolras knows you can’t get at the market. 

 

Combeferre turns to face Enjolras. “Coffee?”

 

“Yeah,” Enjolras says. He rubs a hand across his face and sighs. “I’ll be back, I just… I have to check if I put my phone in charging or not. It was almost dead last time I checked.”

 

Combeferre nods, already busy making the coffee and boiling the water. He’s talking with Courfeyrac about a date they’re planning, or something, so Enjolras makes his quiet escape. Just as he leaves the table, he realizes that his phone is actually on the couch, obviously  _ not  _ dead. There’s a little blinking green light - he must’ve gotten a text. 

 

Before Courfeyrac or Combeferre have time to notice it, Enjolras grabs his phone, lets out a sigh of relief, and then he hears a thud. It’s quiet enough that he wouldn’t have heard it if the television was on, but loud enough to catch Combeferre’s attention.

 

“What?” Courfeyrac asks. 

 

Combeferre stares into the hallway. “Did you hear that?”

 

“Hear what?”

 

“I knew that book was going to fall,” Enjolras says, shaking his head. He doesn’t want his friends to worry, let alone trace the noise back to his room. He can’t have them going in there, not now. 

 

Combeferre doesn’t look very impressed, but he doesn’t question it. Courfeyrac’s completely moved on, trying to talk Combeferre into buying tickets to some West End show he desperately wants to see. Enjolras just half-smiles and, when Combeferre has directed all his attention back to Courfeyrac, hurries back to his room. 

 

Enjolras has a hundred different scenarios running through his mind, but Grantaire holding himself up against his desk, gasping as if he’d run out of air, was not one of them. Enjolras is almost too scared to ask what happened. 

 

“What-?”

 

Grantaire turns to face Enjolras a little too quickly, and he has to place a hand on the wall to stay standing. There’s something very, very wrong. 

 

“Grantaire.” Enjolras takes a tentative step forward. His heart races. “What’s going on?”

 

Grantaire glares at Enjolras. He’s trying to seem impressive, terrifying, but Enjolras can see his hands shake, knows he’s going to lose his grip. “None of your damn business.”

 

“I think it-”

 

Grantaire lets out an earth-shattering roar and stumbles back against the wall, panting heavily. Enjolras doesn’t know what to say, what to do. He’s frozen. And he knows that Combeferre and Courfeyrac are going to come in any minute, and when they do, they won’t like whatever they see. 

 

“Enjolras?” Combeferre asks. His voice still sounds distant. Good. He’s cautious enough to know he probably shouldn’t come here. 

 

Enjolras keeps looking at Grantaire, and says, in the least shaky voice he can manage, “Yeah, everything’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

 

There’s a pause. The apartment is unnervingly silent. Enjolras can’t even hear Grantaire’s uneven breathing. 

 

“Okay,” Combeferre says, finally. “Call me if you need anything.”

 

Enjolras only nods. He waits for a minute, and when Grantaire still doesn’t move, he takes another small, quiet step towards him. 

 

“Please,” he whispers, his words caught in his throat. He doesn’t really know what he’s asking for. He’ll take whatever he’s given. 

 

Grantaire lets out a deep breath, and one hand slowly falls to his side. With a quiet grunt, he pushes himself upright. And when he looks up, Enjolras knows. He feels it in his gut. He  _ knows _ . 

 

“Oh my god,” he breathes, barely audible. He takes another step forward. Grantaire doesn’t move. “Oh my god.”

  
  
  


Enjolras doesn’t know what to say, and yet there’s so much he wants to say. He wants to ask how and why and where and when, he wants Grantaire to know just how hard it’s all been, he wants to tell him everything, but he can’t find the words to say anything. 

 

Neither of them says anything, and then Grantaire slowly reaches to grab something off the top of Enjolras’s cabinet. It’s a sword -  _ the _ sword, the one Atropos gave them. The one that belonged to the Knights Templar. The weapon. 

 

“I’m not going to say I’m sorry, because that’s what everyone says and, well, I’m not exactly everybody.” Grantaire takes another deep breath. He starts walking towards Enjolras. Enjolras does the exact same thing. “I mean, I  _ am _ sorry. I’m sorry that this happened to you, that he did all that to you - I mean, that  _ I _ did all that, because it  _ was _ me. It was always me. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you sooner.” He pauses. They’re standing so close now, barely a foot apart. “But I’m not sorry for what I’m about to do.”

 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras asks slowly, “what are you doing?”

 

He’s still shaking. Enjolras takes a step forward. Grantaire takes a step back. And Enjolras’s heart sinks, because he knows in his gut what Grantaire’s going to do. He knows, and he wishes he didn’t. He wishes he was a little too clueless to pick up on it. 

 

“Don’t,” Enjolras says. He shakes his head, reaches his hand out, but Grantaire still doesn’t do anything. “Don’t do it, Grantaire, don’t. Please. Dammit-”

 

Grantaire looks down at the sword and frowns, but he doesn’t say anything. Enjolras walks up to him until there’s barely an inch between them. He holds his hand out again. This time, he’s the one who’s shaking. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire whispers. He shakes his head, and then reluctantly places the sword in Enjolras’s hand. “I’m sorry, I’m so…”

 

Enjolras nods. “It’s okay.”

 

Grantaire closes his eyes, and wraps his hands around Enjolras’s. For once, he isn’t ice-cold. As much as Enjolras wants to believe that everything’s okay now, he knows it isn’t. He feels it. And maybe that’s his fatal flaw: he always wants to change whatever he can’t. Some things just aren’t in his control. 

 

“I won’t do it,” Grantaire says.

 

Enjolras lets out a sigh of relief. He was so worried- 

 

And then he notices the way Grantaire’s looking at him. There’s steel determination written in his eyes. Enjolras’s heart starts pounding again. Whatever Grantaire’s got planned, he doesn’t want to know what it is. 

 

Grantaire puts one hand on the back of Enjolras’s neck and pulls him closer, and whispers, “But you will.”

 

Enjolras barely has time to register what happened - he feels it long before he sees it. He feels Grantaire’s grip on his hand tighten, the clean movement of the sword as it pushes through him, the way Grantaire’s hands grow cold again. And when he looks up, mouth open, completely frozen, he sees true devastation in Grantaire’s eyes. Like he’s saying  _ I’m sorry _ one last time. 

 

Enjolras tries to find something to say - anything at all - but he just can’t. He hears footsteps in the hallway, and he knows that Combeferre and Courfeyrac are there, watching. And he knows that the only thing registering in their minds is that Grantaire’s not moving, and Enjolras is the one holding the sword. Enjolras feels Grantaire’s grip on his hand grow weaker, and he puts one hand on Grantaire’s shoulder to keep him upright. He thought he had more time. Maybe that’s his fatal flaw. 

 

And when Grantaire finally falls, it’s Enjolras whose world goes dark.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really going to try and get the next chapter up sooner, I promise. Here's a summary for people who skipped the chapter:  
> Grantaire gets possessed by a demon working for Alistair, and after abusing Enjolras for weeks (without his friends knowing), he eventually manages to overcome the demon, and stabs himself.   
> I do work hard to write these fics, so any kudos or comments are always appreciated!   
> You can come say hi (or bother me about this fic!) at [ tumblr ](http://epo-nine.tumblr.com)!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long, I know... I never meant for it to take this long! Life just kinda got in the way. :/ I wouldn't have finished this chapter if Mirela hadn't threatened to not tell me her thoughts on Captain America (I'm a Marvel fan now, yay!). This chapter is dedicated to her, the Steve to my Bucky. :)  
> Enjoy! <3

Enjolras has never been so unsure of what to do. He can’t seem to do anything, anyway, too busy crying and hyperventilating and trying to make sense of what happened. He’s trying to control his breathing, but he can’t. All that matters is that Grantaire’s dead, he’s dead,  _ deaddeaddeaddead- _

 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says. He hasn’t taken his hand off Enjolras’s shoulder since he got here.

 

“We’ll figure out what to do,” Courfeyrac adds. He’s the one who keeps checking Grantaire’s pulse, trying to find some sign that he’s still alive. Enjolras is assuming that isn’t going very well. “There has to be something.”

 

Enjolras shakes his head. “There’s nothing.”

 

“Oh, Enjolras,” Combeferre whispers, and he kneels down beside him. 

 

Enjolras hasn’t taken his hand off Grantaire’s since he fell, not even when Combeferre took the sword, not when Courfeyrac laid him down. If Grantaire’s gone, Enjolras is going with him. And it feels like he already has - everything’s in shades of black and white, all the  _ living _ in his life has been drained out. He has things to do, causes to fight for, sure. But the only one that matters is saving Grantaire.

 

(He couldn’t even do that. Enjolras talks about saving the world, but how is he supposed to do that if he can’t even save one person?)

 

“I can-” Courfeyrac begins, but Enjolras sniffles, and he doesn’t continue. There’s nothing he can do, nothing any of them can do. They just have to wait.

 

( _ “The problem, Enjolras, is you think you have time.” _

 

_ I have all the time in the universe for you. _ )

 

~

 

Enjolras falls asleep after midnight, after a seemingly endless amount of hours spent kneeling over Grantaire, waiting for something to happen. Nothing does. He wakes up again, when it’s still dark out, and finds Combeferre quietly laying a blanket over him.  

 

“Go back to sleep,” Combeferre whispers. “We’ll wake you up if anything happens.”

 

Enjolras nods and curls back up around Grantaire, tucked against his side. He keeps one hand on his chest, listening for that familiar heart beat, waiting for the rise and fall of his breath. He falls asleep eventually.

 

And then he wakes up again, his hand twitching, heart racing. Something stirred.

 

-

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything for a long time. Enjolras likes to think it’d be better that way anyway, but he needs an explanation. So do Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who’ve just now pieced together everything that’s been happening, and look like they’re seriously contemplating kicking Grantaire out. 

 

Enjolras wouldn’t want that. He thinks they know.

 

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says, and it’s so faint, his voice so hoarse, Enjolras barely hears him. He wouldn’t have heard anything if he wasn't waiting for it.

 

Enjolras reaches a hand out, but pulls back at the last minute. “It’s okay,” he says, a little hesitantly. “It’s okay, R. Wasn't you.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t have anything to say to that. Combeferre glances at Enjolras and raises an eyebrow. Enjolras takes a deep breath.

 

“How did it happen?” He asks. 

 

“The fall,” Grantaire says eventually. He leans back against the couch, wraps the blanket tighter around himself, and rubs a hand over his face. He looks tired. “I fucking- I was an idiot. The demon only... “ He pauses to take a breath. Enjolras tries to give him an encouraging smile. “I as weakened, after the fall. That’s how the demon- look, I’m sorry about… everything. I never meant for that to happen.”

 

Enjolras feels like he should say  _ it’s okay _ , the words forming on his lips, but he can’t actually say them. He’d be lying if he did. Because as much as he knows it’s not Grantaire’s fault, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say it’s okay. It’s not. It wasn't.  He’ll never be able to get over what happened, has so many scars that he doesn’t know how to heal, and letting it go like that just feels like cheating. 

 

Grantaire nods, smiling a little sadly. He always understands, and sometimes Enjolras wishes he didn’t.

 

-

 

Enjolras doesn’t leave the apartment for what feels like eternity, though Combeferre assures him it’s only been five days. Grantaire, as much as he likes denying it, isn’t in the right state to be left alone, and really the only person who doesn’t mind being stuck in close quarters with him for so long is Enjolras, so. There wasn't any other choice.

 

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” Grantaire says. He crosses his arms and leans against the wall.

 

Enjolras purposely doesn’t look at him as he pours himself some coffee. “I’m not babysitting you. I just don’t think you should be alone right now.”

 

Grantaire snorts. “I’m not fragile, Enj.”

 

“Never said you where,” Enjolras mutters. 

 

He pushes past Grantaire to get to the living room and finally get to that documentary he’s been meaning to watch, but Grantaire catches his wrist, and he can’t really ignore the tension between them. They haven’t been the same since the demon possession fiasco, and they both know it. 

 

“Are you okay?” Grantaire asks. 

 

Enjolras doesn’t want to lie, so he doesn’t say anything.

 

“I know I fucked up,” Grantaire continues. “I know. And I know you’re probably never going to forgive me, because it  _ is _ my fault. I was being stupid, and you paid the price. So if you… if you want to-”

 

Enjolras sighs and wrestles his wrist out of Grantaire’s grip. “No, I don’t want that. And I don’t blame you, so don’t beat yourself up over it.”

 

Grantaire just looks at him for a solid minute, and then he leans in, one hand on either side of Enjolras’s face, and kisses him, gentle and sweet and spilling all the words they couldn’t say, and Enjolras forgets about his coffee.

 

-

 

Grantaire wakes up a lot, from nightmares or demon residue or memories, Enjolras doesn’t know. They never talk about it when it happens, and they never bring it up afterwards either. It shouldn’t be a problem, and Enjolras keeps telling himself it isn’t, but sometimes, he sees the black in Grantaire’s eyes, and it’s a lot harder to fall back asleep.

 

It’s the fourth time it’s happened tonight. Grantaire never really sleeps well anymore, but Enjolras can tell there’s something disrupting the little rest he’s getting. He’s shaky, his breaths rapid and shallow, his heartbeat thrumming through his veins. 

 

“Talk to me,” Enjolras whispers, careful not to wake Combeferre and Courfeyrac up. He sits up and puts a comforting hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Grantaire, you can’t keep it in forever-”

 

“I should go. You’re not getting any sleep,” Grantaire says.

 

He starts to get up, pushing aside the covers, but Enjolras lurches forward to hold him down. Grantaire could easily toss him aside, but he doesn’t. Enjolras wonders why.

 

“No, wait,” he says. His voice softens. “Stay with me.”

 

Grantaire looks at the hallway, his face illuminated by the light Combeferre left on in the kitchen, and then he sighs and crawls back on the bed until he’s pressed right up against Enjolras. Enjolras missed this. 

 

He rolls over and shoves his face in the crook of Grantaire’s neck, and spends a minute or ten just breathing him in. Grantaire wraps his arms around his waist and holds him, and it’s probably the nicest thing that’s happened in weeks, and for the first time, Enjolras falls asleep feeling safe.

 

-

 

After a week, Combeferre drags Enjolras to a Les Amis meeting. They need an explanation, he says. And he’s right, absolutely. Les Amis deserve to know what was going on, why Enjolras doesn’t show up anymore, why Grantaire’s been acting weird. 

 

The problem is, they aren’t reacting. 

 

Enjolras tried to be as straightforward and clear as he could be, but somehow he didn’t make sense. Or maybe there’s something they’re not understanding. Or maybe-

 

“So, wait, I just gotta-” Musichetta holds a hand up. “Grantaire was possessed by a demon? For a few weeks? But now he’s… back?”

 

Enjolras blinks at her, feeling slightly embarrassed. He doesn’t know why. “Um. Yeah. Yeah, that’s- that’s what happened.”

 

“Oh, Enjolras,” Cosette says. Her voice is so soft and gentle, Enjolras is afraid it’s going to break. She’s got this heartbreaking look on her face, and Enjolras wishes he didn’t know what she meant to say. 

 

Eponine shrugs. She looks like there’s something she’s trying to keep hidden. “As long as you’re okay now… that’s all that matters.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t feel the same. He’s not okay, and he has a feeling he’s not going to get a happy ending, and nothing’s been going good for him lately. But he nods and smiles anyway, because he’d hate to let his friends down like that. They still have a chance at a happy ending, and Enjolras is more than willing to help them achieve it. He’s okay with not being part of it.

 

“You know, I’m starting to think it’s a bad idea,” Musichetta says, shifting in her seat.

 

“What is?” Enjolras asks, though he knows full well what she’s talking about.

 

Musichetta’s smile is sympathetic. “Grantaire. If he’s- you can’t keep putting yourself in danger like this, Enj.”

 

“She’s right,” Bahorel says, jerking a thumb in Musichetta’s direction. 

 

Enjolras knows that, logically. He knows he should keep his distance, maybe let Grantaire heal and find himself again, maybe walk away from the situation and let Atropos figure it out. It’s the safer option by far, he knows. He’s gone through it all several times, analyzed every option he has. But at the end of the day, he’ll still always choose to stay. Sure, it’s dangerous, and it might cost him his life. Enjolras would rather die than live knowing he chose to walk away when he had the power to do something, to save people, to make a difference. As much as Les Amis like denying it, Enjolras is responsible for this war, too. 

 

Combeferre pushes his glasses up. “You should think this through before you go on.”

 

Enjolras shakes his head. “I can’t.”

 

He doesn’t need to say anything more. Combeferre already understands the gravity of his words.

 

-

 

Enjolras wastes no time the minute he gets back to the apartment, and Grantaire doesn’t ask any questions. He just does what Enjolras wants, what he needs, presses him against the bed until he has no room to escape, trails cold fingers along the waistband of his jeans. His kisses are hungry and sloppy and open-mouthed, a little frantic and chaotic and rough, and it’s all Enjolras needs to distract him from his own thoughts.

 

He helps Grantaire get his shirt off, fumbles with the zipper on his jeans, tugs Grantaire back down until there’s no space between them. He kisses and kisses and kisses, and keeps kissing until the only thing on his mind is the taste of Grantaire burning on his lips and tongue, nothing but familiar cold on his skin. 

 

-

 

Enjolras knows their battle is far from over, and the angels and demons are still a threat, but he doesn’t know what’s left for him to do. Grantaire’s been weakened in more ways than one, and he’s really the only thing preventing them from taking over. Enjolras doesn’t like thinking about what might happen. 

 

So he doesn’t think about it. Grantaire’s the one who brings it up.

 

“They still think I’m-” Grantaire pauses and crosses his arms. Enjolras glances up at him. “We need to find a way to prove I’m still stronger. Smarter.  _ Better _ .”

 

It takes a moment to register what he’s talking about. Of course beating the enemy is on the top of Grantaire’s priority list. Of course it’s not taking a break, healing, recovering. 

 

“I don’t think there is anything,” Enjolras says. 

 

Grantaire sits down beside him and doesn’t say anything for a long time. He always goes quiet like this, whenever there’s something really important on his mind. Enjolras has gotten used to it, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how much of Grantaire is actually Grantaire, and how much… isn’t. 

 

“Do you remember,” Grantaire says slowly, shifting until he’s facing Enjolras, “when I told you about her?”

 

Enjolras frowns. “Her? Who- you mean Lachesis?”

 

He had a dream about her, a few nights ago, though he hasn’t told anyone. He found himself in that dark, misty forest he hasn’t seen in so long, and there was a woman standing alone, the golden gleam of a sword visible in her hands. When she turned to him and pushed her hood back, all he could see was long white hair and eyes that had a thousand faces, like empty, polished quartz.

 

“Lachesis, yes.” The name sounds strange on Grantaire’s lips, like he never dares to say it out loud. There’s more to their history than he’s told Enjolras. “She can help us.”

 

Enjolras isn’t sure he’s following, but he’s learned by now that it’s sometimes best to let Grantaire carry on with whatever he’s saying before trying to make any sense of it. “You said we need the Scrolls for that. We don’t have-”

 

“No, we don’t,” Grantaire agrees solemnly. “But maybe we don’t need them.”

 

-

 

Grantaire, for some reason, is very determined to get his ridiculous plan to work. It didn’t make sense to Enjolras when he first explained it, and it’s not like it’s making more sense now. Actually, Enjolras thinks he’s even more confused than he was before. 

 

The coffee table has been cleared from the living room, and the space it used to take up is now filled with fake flowers and unlit candles. Enjolras has no idea why it’s all here. Ambience, maybe. 

 

“Why do we need all this?” Enjolras asks.

 

Grantaire just ushers him to the single pillow on the floor. “Lachesis cares about aesthetics. Now, do you remember the plan?” He doesn’t wait for Enjolras to say anything. “All you have to do is sit here, and let me do the rest. Don’t reject anything you see, don’t fight anything that happens. Just let it be. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Enjolras says, still not quite sure what, exactly, he’s going to be doing.

 

He watches as Grantaire lights the candles around them and rearranges the flowers, and then he’s leaning over Enjolras, a blindfold in his hands. Enjolras closes his eyes as Grantaire’s fingers brush gently over his face, and then everything is dark, his vision obscured by the blindfold. Grantaire called it sensory deprivation. 

 

“Relax,” Grantaire murmurs. His hands come to rest on either side of Enjolras’s face, surprisingly warm. 

 

Enjolras lets out a shaky breath. “I am relaxed.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything else. There’s a moment of silence and darkness, and then Enjolras feels like he’s falling, falling, falling into some sort of abyss, deep and never ending and full of a kind of fear he fears he’ll never be able to shake. And just as Enjolras starts to panic - maybe he’s really falling, maybe, maybe, maybe - the abyss becomes a palette of hypnotic colours, dashing in and out of his line of vision like quick strokes of paint. There are glimpses of flashing gold, few and far between, and the feeling of running your fingers through silky hair, and Enjolras is overwhelmed by the smell of lavender and cedar. It’s so gentle and soft, he almost forgets they’re trying to summon the death-obsessed Fate. 

 

The icy, thousand-faced eyes he sees next are enough to break that delicate spell.

 

Enjolras gasps for air and reaches out to steady himself, though he finds he hasn’t fallen over at all. Grantaire’s hands burn through his skin. Even through the blindfold, he can tell there’s someone else in the room. 

 

“Please,” he whispers. 

 

Grantaire understands and promptly pulls the blindfold off. He keeps a hand on Enjolras’s face a second longer, and then steps back. If Enjolras wasn't so well-versed in Grantaire’s ways, he would have missed the momentary fear in his eyes. But he doesn’t. And anyway, he knows why Grantaire’s scared, why he  _ should _ be scared. There is something sinister and primordial and chaotic, and it settles like destruction on old ruins. 

 

Lachesis. Enjolras knows it’s her before he sees her, and when he does, he wishes he never did.

 

She looks more like a ghost than anything real, like the echoes of a haunting dream etched in the back of your mind, reappearing every time you dare to close your eyes. Enjolras was wrong about her eyes, though; they’re more like mirrors than quartz, reflecting flaws and judgements with no mercy. Surprisingly, she’s wearing a lot of gold and white. When Grantaire told him about her darkness, Enjolras was expecting something more along the lines of Atropos. Sharp edges, sleek black, obsidian and raw amethyst. 

 

Instead, Lachesis is clean and soft. There is grace where there should be cruelty. Perhaps the stories have painted her in the wrong colours. Perhaps Enjolras has misjudged her.

 

“I have not seen in so long,” Lachesis says, unblinking. 

 

Her voice isn’t what Enjolras thought it would be, either. He expected the coarse grating of metal, but instead it is the gentle flow of water over smooth stones. The world, as Enjolras has learned, is far from what he thought, and even further from what he was told. 

 

Lachesis settles her gaze on Grantaire. “So long, Azrael. Why have you called me, then?” Her smile is feral. “How may I assist you?”

 

“There’s nothing you can help with,” Grantaire hisses, jerking his head sharply to look at her. 

 

Enjolras is a little confused. He thought she could help, that that’s why they summoned her. “But-”

 

Grantaire silences him with a glare, and Enjolras promptly stops talking. He’ll ask about it later, when Grantaire’s not so obviously terrified. Not that Enjolras understands why. He’ll ask about that later, too.

 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, his voice unusually soft, “do you mind leaving? Just for a moment? Lachesis and I need to talk.”

 

Enjolras swallows. He glances at Lachesis, then at Grantaire, then back at Lachesis. Neither of them make a move to do anything, or say anything else, but there’s still something off that Enjolras can’t quite put his finger on. 

 

He nods. “Sure,” Enjolras says, because he doesn’t think this is a conversation that needs him.

 

He has a feeling he wouldn’t want to be a part of it, anyway.

 

-

 

Enjolras is busy making himself some toast when he hears a screech. He drops his butter knife, doesn’t even register the echo as it hits the ground before he’s running back out to the living room. Whatever he expected to see, it wasn't  _ this _ . And whatever  _ this _ actually is, he’s sure he’s too late. There are no screeches anymore.

 

Grantaire’s got one hand on either side of Lachesis’s face, and- dear god, they’re kissing. 

 

Enjolras is just… he’s shocked. A little hurt. Mostly numb. He tries to say something, but the words get stuck in his throat, and all he can do is stand and watch. The kiss is over before Enjolras even has time to register it - next thing he knows, Lachesis is on the ground, and Grantaire is kneeling by her body, eyes downcast. He’s shaking again, like he did after the demon.

 

“What the fuck?” Enjolras asks. He takes a step forward and then immediately goes back. Lachesis looks dead, if a Fate can even  _ be _ dead, her glassy eyes rolled back in her head. He feels sick.

 

Grantaire puts a shaky hand out to steady himself. He slowly looks up at Enjolras, hair falling in his eyes - but it doesn’t mask the unfamiliar coldness in them, the way their bright blue seems to glow more than usual.

 

“What happened?” Enjolras demands.

 

Grantaire stares at him with those unsettling eyes. “We needed her. I got what we needed.” Grantaire gestures at the body in front of him. “We don’t need this.”

 

Oh.  _ Oh. _ Enjolras understands. He kneels down until he’s level with Grantaire, and doesn’t say anything. There isn’t much he can say, anyway. Grantaire did what he thought he had to do, what, at the end of the day, had to be done. He acquired Lachesis’s powers. They never needed Lachesis herself; Enjolras was foolish to think so. They needed her power, nothing more.

 

“There was no other way,” Grantaire says, his voice breaking.

 

Enjolras sits down and reaches out to take Grantaire’s hand in his own. He tries to smile. Grantaire doesn’t expect him to say anything, so he doesn’t. He just turns to face the window and watches the sun disappear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's still reading this! I'll really try and get the next one up before 6 months go by. I'm on tumblr at epo-nine like always!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! :) I'm going to try and update once a week, so expect more to come soon!  
> 


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